


It Had To Be You

by Sneaky_WitchThief



Series: I'll Never Be Free [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Infidelity, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Forced Pregnancy, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, Imprisonment, Infidelity, Inspired by the Handmaid's Tale, Long, Love/Hate, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Present Tense, References to The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood, Retelling, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Slow Build, Stockholm Syndrome, Tags May Change, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, plot deviation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 96,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sneaky_WitchThief/pseuds/Sneaky_WitchThief
Summary: In the toxic world of postwar America nothing is more rare than a healthy child.  Except for, perhaps, basic human decency.  To the Brotherhood fertile mothers are a resource to be exploited like any other.   When I went to the Brotherhood for help in finding my son, well.   Here I am, a resource, exploited.This is my story.( A Fallout Story in the style of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. )





	1. Chapter 1

I am in a city that used to house a university. The university. For the smart ones, to sharpen their minds. In another life, I wished my mind could be sharpened like a knife to a cutting edge. With such a weapon I could survive in this dog eat dog world. Now I stand in the city of great minds surrounded by the mindless, with a weapon that is a gun. The mindless had shambled and shook as they lumbered about; zombies, like in the old horror shows. The last of them bends over next to a car, bony hands like claws tearing away at one of its own, mindlessly eating. Eating, it made me want to retch. No, the retch was from the rads. But the ghouls didn't help any.

They are not dogs. The pistol is heavy in my hands.

The ghoul looks up, little eyes like beetles shining in the moonlight, what remained of its face twitching with every unnatural movement. It? No, her. She wears a dress, like the ones I wore on dates in college. I wonder if she ever went on dates, before the end. Before she became an it. I watch her carefully from the shadows. Her ragged mouth chews noisily like a cow's, blood and flesh like cud between jutting yellow teeth. Chewing, chewing, consuming. Always hungry, never satisfied. Her stomach is distended and bulging, a sharp contrast from the withered limbs that poke out at odd angles from her tattered rags. Pregnant, she might have been, before. Perhaps she still is and the radiation burned it into her. Forever fused, forever together. Mindlessly devouring.

In some strange and horrible way I envy her.

I raise my weapon and fire. I miss. She sees me then, those beady little beetles, and that cow's mouth twists into an enraged snarl. The rage empowers her, flinging her entire being forward with a shriek like a bat out of hell. I fire again. And again. And again. Finally she falls, crumpling to the ground on top of her bloated belly, still. The night is quiet once more, the sour smell of ozone and seared ghoulflesh lingering. The wretched feeling returns, and I retch. Nothing comes out, no, I am as starved as the rest of them. I look once more to the slain ghoul, and see myself in her.

Good work, civilian, says the Soldier with a grateful nod. The exhaustion of battle is plain on his face and the sag of his body visible even behind the shining power armor. He adjusts the laser rifle in his arms and fires it at a still twitching body of a ghoul. He is handsome, in a rugged and dangerous kind of way, harsh and hardened by the ravages of war. A bead of blood rolls down his face, following the path of a scar. I do not remember who or what it had belonged to, that blood. But like sweat the soldier wipes it away with the back of his hand, unintentionally smearing it across his brow like primal warpaint.

The ground is covered in blood and the corpses of ghouls. I am reminded of the mangled bodies in ancient paintings of the supposed glory of war, splayed prettily along the earth, a flag or a rifle held with dignity against their bodies. There is no such dignity here, save for one lone soldier, his eyes transfixed and glassy in death, frozen in a final moment of adrenaline and defiance beneath a pile of ghouls. The armored soldier, seeing his fallen comrade, renders a steel-faced salute.

He turns back to me, his face grim. Thank you for the assistance, civilians. But what's your business here?

Beside me I see Preston frown. He touches my arm, a silent warning. His eyes are dark beneath the wide brim of his hat, his grip unrelaxed and tense upon his laser musket. Apprehension radiates off of him, so much so I could almost feel it oozing from him. Like sludge. Ugly and foul and black. It is not like Preston. Ever helpful and kind Preston. This one I do not know.

I avoid his question, Who are you, I ask right back, without fear even though I'm still trembling like a leaf in the wind. The soldier does not buy it, and narrows his eyes. He is in no mood for games of words and who is who. I cannot find my words. I see only a soldier in steel three heads taller than I, casting a shadow of lead upon me. I feel small, shrunken, squashed. Like a bug. I am a radroach, pesky and unwelcome in this heavy, crushing shadow.

It is Preston who speaks, stepping in front of me with a steely resolve. We followed your radio signal, he says, his musket primed but cast down, weighed down by gravity of the situation, We came to help is all. Glad to see how much the Brotherhood always appreciates a helping hand.

Brotherhood. Preston says the name with such disdain it is dripping. Like poison, like some horrid thing fished out of a sewer. From the dark and dank, a secret forbidden place underground where no one dares to tread. I think of secret brotherhoods, fraternities, cults. Cults, closed off and hushed, small whispers of secret worlds and secret places, insular. An island surrounded by mist, a paradise promised only to them. In the past I have heard of such cults, following some charismatic leader and giving their lives for no reason at all other than blind faith. The thought of such things, such control, frightened me as a little girl. The idea of brotherhoods.

At such harsh words the soldier deflates a little, standing down. Forgive me, he responds after a moment of careful thought, I am not used to, well, strangers. I am Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel. Over there are Scribe Haylen, Knight Rhys and...

The pain on his face is plain, familiar.

 

I am in Sanctuary Hills, before the war, before the bombs, before the Brotherhood and before Preston and before, before ghouls. I am sitting on my, no, Nate's couch. This is his house. I just live in it. I hear the cooing of Shaun in his nursery, Codsworth floating nearby as he prepares breakfast. Beside me is Nate, his hair uncombed and face unshaven, expressionless as he flips the channels on the television. He had never liked television or the radio shows or comic books, not before Alaska and not now. But since his return it is all he does. I joked once of his newly formed love affair with the television.

He had not been amused. I touch my cheek, the memory of the sting of his hand as fresh as the day it had happened.

I do not joke anymore.

And so I say nothing. I have become accustomed to nothing in this house, like a ghost. I am nothing, I own nothing, and I must do nothing, lest I set something off. Like walking in a room full of trip wires on roller skates. I vaguely remember Nate, young and laughing like a loon as I fell for the umpteenth time while still clinging to the railing of the roller rink.

Don't be afraid, you can do it! Come on, honey! He had cried, beckoning me to come to him, teasing. Always with the teasing, my Nathan. My Nathan. Oh, my precious Nathan.

I miss roller skates.

No, no I shouldn't. What a horrible thing to think.

I look to him then, hoping to see that laugh and smile I had fallen so desperately in love with just two years prior. His face is dark and lined with some indescribable emotion I can't for the life of me place, and I think he looks like a corpse. A ghoul. Eyes staring at nothing as he absently presses the channel button again. And again. And again. He is not watching, he cannot watch. He is elsewhere. Another time, another place, someone else at his side. A rifle in his hand perhaps, the crunch of gravel beneath the heel of his boot as he ran, ran off to fight some invisible enemy. But here, in this place, he remains still and silent, his thumb scrolling through the channels like an automaton.

I reach out to him, over this impossible, unreachable distance of a few scant inches between us, and touch his arm. He flinches and stares at me then, his eyes wide and fearful, lined with an age he isn't and filled with a horrible emptiness that I do not understand, at least not then. Not yet. I say nothing, but through my touch I will my everything to him. My love, my understanding, my compassion, my desire my need and all that I am to him, to let him now that i am here, that this is real, and that Alaska is gone, far gone. Far away.

That he is home.

Singer's dead, he says quietly, his voice like a small child's, a whisper. A plea for help in the night after a nightmare, of begging a parent to rid them of a monster under the bed. Small, pitiful, alone. He grabs the sleeve of my dress, his knuckles white. His voice is tenuous and tremulous, and I ache at the horrible state of the voice I had loved so much, my heart broken for him as he is broken. He's dead.

I know. It's okay now. It's going to be okay. I hold him in my arms, cradling him like our infant son as he wept, and I repeat it over and over like a mantra. It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay.

I have forgotten who I am telling this mantra to. But deep down, in our heart of hearts that's hidden and locked away like a forbidden treasure never to be opened, we both know that it is not okay. It will never be okay. Not anymore.

Not ever.

 

My name is Sol, I say, interrupting him. I do not know why I give him a name. A name that is not my name. Perhaps it is out of desperation to find help, or perhaps out of sympathy, compassion -- to distract from a pain all too familiar. And I'm from Sanctuary. This is -

Preston Garvey. Commonwealth Minutemen. Preston thrusts out his hand with none of the boundless friendliness I had grown to expect of him. His eyes are cold, his stature like that of a dog protecting its territory. He stands tall, imposing and dignified despite the Paladin looming over him. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of it, the soldier took his hand and shook it. Acceptance and gratitude, or a challenge? The soldier's face does not change -- I cannot tell what he is thinking.

But he speaks, his voice rigid and unfeeling. Like a robot, I think to myself, as such soldiers do. Soldiers, faceless, unfeeling. A number, a pawn. Who is this man's king? The soldier of steel apologizes for his behavior, explains the troubles of his squad. He is hurting just as we are, despite his goliath's armor and weapons. He is hurting just as we are, as the world is. There is no end of hurt here, in this end of worlds.

He asks for help.

He needs a radio. A special radio, a deep range transmitter, like the ones on satellites. Flying high in space on rockets. Another world. No, the brotherhood. How many brothers, I wonder, and from what kind of world are they from? The Paladin asks for hand. Preston frowns deeply, perhaps knowing it is in truth an arm and a leg that is needed. But I need them as much as they need me. A favor for a favor, I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine, that sort of thing. The Paladin is a soldier, a man of honor. Even I can see that behind the armor. Or maybe because of it. He will honor my request if I help him, he has already not killed us in exchange for slaying the ghouls. The last Vault Dweller and the last Minuteman; tiny insects easy to squash. Yet he stays his hand, even reaching from behind the mists of secrecy and mysterious brotherhood for help.

I take that hand in mine. A handshake, an acceptance, a contract.

For Shaun, I tell myself, as we walk into the night, our weapons of steel in hand. I look up to the sky, at the stars and the moon, and for satellites. What do they see?

 

 

 

It is not my first time in ArcJet Systems. In another life I had gone there to consult with a client. No, I took notes. The lawyers spoke with a client. I was a translator, regurgitating the words of different peoples in different languages, from the jargon of science to the jargon of law. A consultant, they called me.

And a consultant I remain. The Paladin watches me as I rummage through the fallen robots for salvage. This is useful, this is not, I pick through the brains of these machinemen. Synths, he calls them, though it it's a name and concept new to me. They wear plastic faces of men over their metal skeletons, and their glowing mechanical eyes stare empty, powerless, a ghastly amber. They are not ArcJet, they are not from space. But being so otherworldly and bizarre to me, they might as well have been. Their weapons are cheap, mass manufactured for this small army of machines. The plastic has melted to their metal fingers from the rocket and laser fire.

I am thankful Preston and the Paladin had not suffered the same fate.

The test chamber is quiet and we know we are alone.

That was interesting, the Paladin lowers his weapon and wipes sweat from his brow. The blood of ghouls and men has faded from his face. He looks at me, his eyes of steel critical, analyzing. Sizing me up as if I am a slave of Rome ready for purchase. He is impressed. I look away, focusing on the scrap around us. I strip the wiring and precious microfusion cells from the robots. For caps, or for turrets or floodlights or radios. An apology for Preston, for helping the Brotherhood, and a gift to Sturges back in Sanctuary. Are you familiar with such prewar artifacts, Sol?

I almost miss the question. The Paladin is suddenly close, kneeling down to look at me, a friendly and more brotherly gesture. His face is hopeful, though his eyes remain the same. He helps me with the wires, ripping out the electric veins and arteries of the synths with ease. Not so much with rockets, I reply as I continue my work, but yes. General engineering, though my specialty was nuclear. I was a consultant for patent lawyers.

He does not know what a patent lawyer is. I do not explain, and evidently he does not need to know. My working knowledge of technology is enough for him. He nods curtly and we walk to the elevator, our prize secured with a little extra in our pockets. The Paladin rides up first, as the elevator is much too small for all of us. When the doors close, Preston places a hand on my shoulder.

Be careful, Sol, he says, though he does not use that name. The Brotherhood of Steel is dangerous. They're out for themselves, they're just Gunners with bigger guns.

I know. But they are the best chance of finding Shaun. They have guns. Power armor. Supplies. They are organized. I think these things and say nothing. I know these things but I cannot say them. Instead I wait for the elevator. Preston is understanding. He knows these things, knows that I also do. His hand is reassuring, supportive. The touch of a friend.

The ding of the elevator and a gargling crackle of the automated announcement breaks the comforting silence. It is time to resurface. We step in and tap the button. The lights flicker and the elevator rises, shaking and rattling dangerously on its ancient pulley system. I think of rust, and of falling, but I am not afraid. Perhaps it is the adrenaline still, from the battle with the synths. Or perhaps I welcome death, of reunion with Nate, of leaving this horrible apocalypse behind forever. Of waking up from a bad dream in my home, my head in my husband's lap, to the sound of my baby's laughter. I think, for the briefest of moments, that death would not be so bad.

But my baby is still out there, somewhere. I cannot give up. Not yet, not ever. It will be okay, I tell myself. It will be okay.

I am blinded. The elevator doors have opened and the sun shines in, a sickly green that matched the dying world around me. How many hours had it been? The pip-boy would know, but that is not important. We step out into the air that smells of decay to meet the Paladin, waiting for us. He raises a hand in greeting. A friendly gesture, welcoming. The island beckons from behind the mists. Brotherhood.

Mission accomplished, he says, your extra guns gave us the edge we needed. I'm not sure I could have accomplished this mission alone. He pauses then, his eyes softening and a gentle smile gracing his otherwise rigid face. It is a strange, alien thing, his smile. He speaks again. We work well as a team.

A surprising statement from the soldier. I hear a sharp intake of breath from Preston beside me. It is not a lie, the synths were many and we were few. Had I not activated the rocket and sealed the blast doors, we would have been overrun. Yes, I say with a small nod, I suppose we are. But-

He interrupts. That being said, we have two important matters to discuss. First and foremost, if you'll hand me the deep range transmitter, I'd like to compensate you for your assistance during this operation.

I give him the device. I have no desire for it, I do not need to contact martians or mysterious brotherhoods. He nods his thanks and hands me his heavy laser rifle. I take it and hold the thing awkwardly in my arms, trying not to drop it, thinking to hold it until he can put away the transmitter. He places the transmitter in some hidden place of his armor and looks back at me. I hold out the rifle.

No, no. Take it. It is far more effective a weapon than the one you have currently. It's my own personal modification of the standard Brotherhood laser rifle. He smiles and renders a tiny, playful salute. Strange for someone so professional, and oddly friendly. I can only stare, confused. May it serve you well in battle.

This weapon is too big, too awkward for me, but he is not wrong. I struggle to hold it comfortably. Don't you need it, I ask.

This is not the only weapon at my disposal, answers the Paladin, and continues, Now, as far as the second matter goes, I wanted to make you a proposal. We had a lot thrown at us back there. Our op could have ended in disaster, but you kept your cool and acted like a soldier.

I remember screaming as mechanical men rained down from the ceiling.

He continues. There's no doubt in my mind that you've got what it takes. The way I see it, you've got a choice. You could spend the rest of your life wandering from place to place, trading an extra hand for a meager reward. Or, you could join the Brotherhood and make your mark on the world.

I imagine Mars at that moment, pictures I saw in books in school. Blurry images of a dead rock the color of blood, named after a warmongering, vengeful god of Rome. Alone and cold, suspended in an endless nothing. Nothing lived there, nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing was what inhabited its impossible vastness. It was covered with craters.

The mark I see is a crater.

So what do you say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the chapter and enjoy the chapters to come!
> 
> This fic is a little experiment and exercise in writing differently than I normally do, not only in tense and POV but also in how I write dialogue. So... there are no quotation marks.
> 
> I've been meaning to nurture a more distinct style and I hope this is a way I can do it... and of course also illustrate the FO4 Brotherhood of Steel with the brutality and "for the greater good [of us]" mentality the traditional Western chapters have. The FO4 Brotherhood of Steel also did a real disservice to Sarah Lyons, so I'll be trying to address that too. I'll be writing a series of accounts in this alternate universe.
> 
> But anything past that is spoilers!
> 
> Please let me know any questions, comments, critiques or concerns! Feedback is always welcome. :)


	2. Chapter 2

I loved baseball as a child.  My mother disapproved, she always said it was for boys, so violent with those clubs and leather armor.  She wanted me sheltered from violence and unladylike things, at first.  But after I found my mother stitching up my bloodied father after a shootout with a rival gang, she stopped trying.  My father, having come from Italy with my mother to escape the Resource Wars, embraced the American dream and Italian-American culture with gusto.  Anything to forget the horrors in the old country.

Baseball, even though he did not entirely understand it, was one of our favorite things to do together.  When he could scrape enough money together from the odd jobs he could find with the Italians, as the Irish hated us and the others didn't want to give their money to a fresh-off-the-boat, good-for-nothing immigrant, we would go to Fenway and watch the ball game.  We would eat kind of warm dogs, as my father would say, and laugh.  Father and daughter.  Familial love, that sort of thing.

We would forget the violence that ruled our lives, if for a few hours.

Now, as I look upon the ruins of my favorite childhood memory, I know that violence is inescapable.  It is a fact of life, part of the human condition, as they say.  They.  Men long dead, from the violence.  Philosophers.  If only we had heeded their warnings.  If only we had not ended the world and turned the city of my birth into a graveyard.  The walls of Fenway are crumbling, the statue of a player whose name I cannot recall rusted green.  He is faceless.

But here in this massive graveyard that is the Commonwealth, there is a firecracker of a girl shouting into a mic at a man named Danny.  Preston and I look on, not quite knowing what to do.  He tells me that the baseball diamond of Fenway is Diamond City, but I still can't quite believe him.  It is too preposterous, surely.  But the angry young woman assures me through her shouting at the man Danny that yes, this is indeed Diamond City and that, no, they are not letting anyone in.  Even though she lives here.

I step forward, catching the eye of the woman, a reporter.  Piper, Danny had called her.  Like the bird, sandpiper.  Little tiny birds flitting across the sand.  Full of life and boundless energy.  Running back and forth, back and forth, chasing the surf back and forth endlessly.  I wondered for a moment what it was this Piper chased.  The ticket in her hat spells 'press', the look on her face spells mischief.  So, most likely, she chases trouble.

You, hey, you, she beckons me forth, her hand fluttering like the wings of her namesake.  You want into Diamond City, right?  I open my mouth to speak, but she touches a gloved finger to my lips before I can say anything.  Shh.  Play along.    She shoots a sly wink at Preston and I as she boisterously spins her lie.  Oh, what was that?  You're a trader up from Quincy?  And you have enough supplies to keep the general store stocked for a whole month?  Why, you even have a minuteman escort!  Huh.  You really must have valuable wares.  She flicks the microphone and sneers.  You hear that, Danny?  You gonna open up the gate and let us in?  Or are you going to be the one talking to Crazy Myrna about losing out on all this supply?

Danny grumbles through the tinny mic and the enormous gate is lifted, opening Fenway, no, Diamond City, to us.  A man in a suit stands livid, and the smug reporter, victorious, goes to meet him.  They shout and I avoid them.  I see a man in catcher's gear look dejectedly at me from behind a concession stand, a microphone held weakly in his left hand.  I go to him.  

Preston gives a small wave and a smile then leaves, back to Sanctuary.  To rebuild the Minutemen, he has told me.  To better the Commonwealth.  He had escorted me to Diamond City only as a favor, repayment for killing the deathclaw.

But that is another story.

I walk up to the man named Danny, feeling his tired, angry eyes upon me.  His grip tightens on the microphone.  I'm sorry, I say with utmost honesty, it all just happened so fast.

Sure it did, he spits, his face red with indignant embarrassment.  Didn't your mother ever teach you to be a decent person? Tch, some people.  With a huff the man named Danny turns away and ignores me.  

Oh, what a first impression I have made here.  I feel ashamed.

I let out a sigh of my own and step away from him.  A guard nearby, hidden behind sunglasses, smokes and watches us absently.  Ancient addiction gnaws at me, seeing that cigarette.  I pull out a pack, plucked from the Vault and perfectly preserved from the elements, and stare at it.  Unopened, it is worth dinner and lodging. perhaps for two or three days.  Precious caps.

Fuck it.  I need it.  I tear it open and stuff a cigarette in my mouth.  I scramble for a lighter, a match, anything to light it and feel the sweet, sweet nicotine again.  I must have dropped it, or lost it back in Cambridge.  Maybe Rhys never gave it back after he borrowed it.  I wouldn't put it past him.  I am just about to kick myself for ruining the cigarettes when a lighter suddenly appears before me.  The smoking guard, face expressionless, is holding a lighter out to me.

Ah. I take a deep drag from the now lit cigarette.  The hot smoke fills me.  It feels warm, good.  I need the caps, sure, but this feeling of just standing and having a smoke, I think I need that more.  Yes, I definitely need it more.  I blow out a thick cloud of smoke and thank him.  Whoever he is.  He says nothing, looking off to the ensuing argument between Piper and the man who must be the mayor.  His jacket is clean and hand pressed, a luxury in this world of troubles.  I peer over, careful not to attract any attention to myself.  I did not want the mayor to accuse me and berate me as Danny had.  I didn't need that.  So I hide behind my cigarette, listening to the grievances of politician and reporter with veiled interest.  A veil of smoke, that is what I wear.  Hidden.

But behind this veil of smoke I am not alone.

So, says my silent companion suddenly, tapping the ash from his cigarette, what brings you to the great green jewel of the Commonwealth, Brotherhood?

I do not understand.  He gestures to the Paladin's rifle, Righteous Authority he had called it, slung across my back.  Oh, this?  A gift, nothing more.  I'm just, well, me.

Ah.  Alright.  And who exactly is this me?

He smiles behind his cigarette, but his eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses.  Dark, obstructed.  But his smile is easy and welcoming, oddly familiar.  I cannot read him, but over the small bond of a cigarette I find myself answering him.  I give him my name and tell him that I came from Sanctuary with the General of the Minutemen.  That I am looking for someone, someone lost that needs to be found.  I do not give his name.  He raises a brow, a stark Irish red, at the answer.  His smile does not leave his face.  It seems stuck there, transfixed, as if someone had glued his mouth stuck that way.  Or, perhaps, this was just who the man was.  Smiling.

Someone that needs finding, eh?  I'd try the detective's office.  Valentine.  But, that's just me.  He shrugs and flicks his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out without a second thought.  He gives a small wave, not looking back, and walks into the city.  

I smoke my cigarette as long as I can, enjoying every pinch of precious tobacco.  It is a small pleasure, after pushing myself to the limit for so long.  Walking halfway across Massachusetts and through the ruins of Boston to find someone, anyone, to help.  I had turned down the Paladin's offer, Preston's words buzzing inside my head like a hive of angry bees.  Or rather, Stingwings, they were now.  Stinging.  My best chance at finding Shaun, likely, but it was too risky according to Preston.  Much too risky.  Secret brotherhoods demand sacrifice.  God knows I would give my own life to get Shaun back.  Anything.  But who knows if they would demand giving up the search for Shaun itself for their guns, their armor, their men?  That is the one thing I cannot do.  Knowing this, having had to give it up based on assumption alone, stings.  Dear god, it stings.

A sting in my hand brings me back to reality.  I've burned my hand from the cigarette.  I toss it to the ground and snuff it out with my foot beside the guard's.  

It strikes me then that while I told him nearly everything, I had not even gotten his name.

 

 

 

 On my short travels through the Commonwealth, I begin to find that the people I look to for help end up needing help themselves.  And what can I do?  I am no warrior, no fighter, no soldier.  I am a lawyer, a different kind of protector.  I am no rescuer but here I am, crouching beneath the stairs hugging Righteous Authority close, listening to the detective and a gangster, Dino, talk about a little black book.  Stricken three times.  Memories surface like tiny bubbles from the recesses of my mind.  Things I want to forget.  Go away, I say to my mind, but it does not listen.

I hear my father, a different man, a stranger, a mobster, talking on the phone not knowing his pregnant daughter is listening in.  I do not exist to him anymore, not after marrying Nate.  In my nonexistence, he does not notice the small click on the line as I pick up another of the phones.  Or perhaps, it is his panic that blinds him.  That one, probably.  He speaks to a woman I do not know, telling her about a home I know not of, of some sort of danger that was coming.  They would have to hide again.  Run again.  He is packing his bags again.  He is in Tony's book, he found it he said, his name is in the fucking book.  They would have to hide, now.  They were coming.

After that phone call, he does not bring me or my mother to hide from the danger.  He is found stuffed into a dumpster three days later, and a girl in my mother's mink coat, barely older than I, is crumpled beside him.  

The book means death.  

Dino scrambles from the Overseer's window, shouting about how he will make things right, how that is absolutely not true.  His feet stomp, stomp, stomp down the metal stairs of the vault, painfully loud and echoing to Piper and I beneath them.  She readies her pistol, watching him until he disappears through the atrium to the halls beyond.  Letting out a sigh of relief, we make our way up to the Overseer's office, seeing a silhouette trapped inside.  The detective.  He certainly looked like something out of an old noir film, with a fedora perched atop his head, the outline of a heavy trench coat dipping down past his knees.  The harsh fluorescents reflected off his eyes.  Were they some sort of bright brown, or were they glowing?

We have about three minutes before he figures out it's all a ruse, said the detective beyond the glass.  I free him, the terminal is not difficult to bypass.  The door opens and the detective steps into the light.  I stare, the breath catching in my throat.

Gotta love the irony of the reverse damsel-in-distress scenario.  Question is, why did our heroines risk life and limb for an old private eye? He laughs behind a cigarette.  Piper is unfazed, and this thing Nick greets her warmly.  Why if it isn't Diamond City's own little troublemaker.  You really do want that interview for your Institute article, don't you, Piper?  He smiles wryly, the artificial skin of his face showing gears and sprockets and Lord knows what else beneath.  Piper laughs as well, and points to me.  I am still staring, my hands shaking on my rifle.

You know it, Nick.  But it was actually Blue here who wanted to come save you, didn't you, Blue?  She looks to me, then frowns.  You okay, Blue?

I am not okay.  I came looking for a detective, not a, a thing.  Memories of ArcJet are still fresh in my mind, those soulless eyes staring as they charged forward with no regard for their own survival.  Endless machinemen that are not men, identical, unfeeling.  Synth after synth turned to dust by the Paladin's rifle.  Blasted to nothing by a rocket.  Another of them stands before me now, head tilted slightly in curiosity, his mechanical irises changing shape and size like the lens of a camera as he analyzes me.  Is he taking pictures?  Who is he sending them to?  Has he been sent to spy on me?  Does this Institute who made him have my baby?

I raise my laser rifle and switch off the safety.  What!  Piper stands herself between me and Nick, eyes wide and fearful.  She is a good person, I do not like to see her that way.  She whisper-shouts.  Blue, what are you doing?

There is a synth in the room with us.  A synth, Piper.

No, this is Nick.  He's Nick Valentine.  Hello?  The detective we've fought tooth and nail to rescue?  That guy?

It's a synth.  Can't you see him, I protest, my voice shaking, heart racing, threatening to jump out of my mouth.  Fear rules me.  It has since the Vault.  He's a synth.  My hands shake on my rifle, and I can't find the trigger.  I am afraid.

Nick steps from behind Piper, his hands, one of them metal and bare like a skeleton's, raised at eye level.  To show he means no harm.  Look, doll, he says carefully, his voice remaining even and steady in its smoky drawl, I know the metal parts ain't comforting, but it's not important right now.  The only thing that matters is getting out of here before Skinny Malone's boys find us.  Then you can tell me why you went to all this trouble to cut me loose.

The sound of something metal kicked and skittering across the linoleum floor resounds from below in the atrium, followed closely by the easy chatter of gangsters.  They speak of a moll, Darla, and a baseball bat.  Braining someone.  The synth is not the threat here, I tell myself, trying to convince myself.  I swallow my fear and slowly, silently pivot to look over the railing outside the overseer's office.  Three triggermen in clean, pressed clothing meander about aimlessly, absently kicking tin cans and prewar amenities as they walked about.  Two have guns, a pistol and a Tommy, one a baseball bat.  

I slowly bring up Righteous Authority from my perch at the railing, carefully aiming the sights at a head.  He wears a bowler hat, the kind my father used to wear when he struck it big with the mob.  I think of all the people I met through my father, all my new uncles Peters and Paulies who dressed like this, giving me candies and toys and pretty dresses on holidays and birthdays.  We all knew each other, the gang, we were a family, despite everything.  The man turns then, and I see his face torn and shredded from the rads, hairless, noseless, eyes black and glistening like oil in the fluorescents.  A walking corpse.  Ghoul.

Nick places his metal hand on the rifle and presses it down.  I had a shot, I hiss, a clean shot.

I don't know about you, doll, he replies, but I'd rather sneak past three of these bozos than fight twenty.  He looks at me then, those terrifying eyes of artificial gold and silver, but he is reassuring.  He is on my side, our side.  I have nothing to fear from him, or at least, he is less of a threat than the gangsters below.  I nod slowly, dumbly I imagine, and hold the rifle at the low ready, as I had seen the Paladin do.

The three of us creep along the shadows of the Vault, past the bozos and into the pristine hallways and countless stairwells that make up Vault 114.  There are no cryogenic pods here.  There are beds, a cafeteria, a, a nursery.  Thoughts of baby Shaun, laughing and gurgling, bubble up in my mind and Nate is there too, his tired face smiling for the first time in ages.  We are in vault suits, here, safe.  Together.  Living out our lives, underground.  But no, this nursery is empty and Nate is dead.  I turn from the bassinets and see Nick looking at me, mouth drawn into a tight line.  He knows, or at least has an idea of what is going on and who I am, from that look.

I say nothing.  Neither does he.  We move on.

Though we manage to avoid a good majority of the gangsters and a very flustered Dino, it is only a matter of time before they realize the synth has broken loose.  Over the intercom the alarm is sounded, and the immaculate Vault is bathed in harsh red light.  The sound of shouting and hurried footsteps echo throughout the halls, quickening our own pace.

We make a mistake.

We step out of the door of the Vault, straight into a man who could be none other than Skinny Malone.  He is a walking anachronism, portly and well-dressed despite the state of the Commonwealth, a waifish moll in a tacky cocktail dress on his arm.  While he is simply a strange sight to see, a lumbering oaf dressed up in fancy clothes, it is the woman who makes my blood run cold.

She carries a mahogany bat over her shoulder.  Darla, it has to be. Nick had mentioned something of her, her being what had brought him here in the first place, but it appears she has no intention of leaving.  She speaks aggressively despite her high, whining voice, urging with an almost rabid ferocity for violence, for revenge.  Skinny seems somewhat annoyed by her but refuses her demands, instead keeping his Tommy locked on Nick.  His eyes are sad.  He is conflicted.  He speaks, but I do not listen.  Darla is the real threat here, my gut tells me, she is a bomb, ready to explode.

She wants to kill us.

And in this moment I know her.

Matty was one of my Uncle Paulie's sons.  He was an attractive enough guy, I suppose.  Tall, muscular, good teeth.  Greaser.

A high school dropout but a promising member of the Family, and full Italian too, so he would be made if he did right by the boss.  A good man, my father always said as he cleaned his magnum for the tenth time that day, he didn't speak in Italian anymore but a heavily accented English, almost comical in trying to imitate the voice of Boston, he'll do right by you, sunshine, I know he will.

And a good man he was, in his own way.  After all, I had known him all my life.  I had grown up in the flat across the alleyway from his family's restaurant.  The alley was our castle, an impregnable fortress of rusty fire escapes and fluttering clotheslines, where we could hide away and trade our adolescent secrets and curious flirtations.  Together we had explored the world around us and who we were as well as each other, for a time.  But as with all good things the youthful curiosity, like a spark, fizzled and died.  While nothing romantic lingered between, we remained good friends through school.

And then things changed.  Likely at the behest of my father, his father, and all of our uncles and aunts and everyone else in the Family, I suddenly became more than just the girl next door to Matty.  He took me to the drive-in in his fancy cars, bought me milkshakes and took me dancing, the whole she-bang.  Suddenly I wasn't a friend anymore.  I was his.  He treated me nice and called me darlin'.

I began to hate him.

Well, not him, exactly, as he was a real gentleman when he wasn't shooting up the Irish in Southie. I hated what he represented.  He was my father's pick for me, a bargaining chip to solidify his place in the Family.  Like money, a few goats or some sheaves of wheat.  Something to trade away.  I was no longer a daughter, I think, but a breeding mare.  Matty was the promising prize stallion I would been given to.  Our eventual union would be an unspoken agreement between my father and Uncle Paulie, an alliance, a contract.  A business transaction to create the unbreakable bond of family.

An unbreakable shackle to me.

I did not want to settle down with a man who I did not love, pop out children for him until I died one day or he did something stupid and got us both whacked.  So, not wanting to outright anger my father, I attempted to break this shackle quietly, subversively, to postpone my inevitable marriage by throwing myself into my studies.  It worked for a time.  He advanced in the mob, I became a consultant to a law firm.  My father was proud of my ambition, as was Matty.  Strong women make the Family strong, after all.

But I was always busy, always working, making money.  Suddenly I didn't have enough time to go on dates with my intended, to ride around in his fancy cars, and most importantly, I was more successful than he had ever been.  He complained and I apologized, and sincerely I did as he deserved better, saying there was nothing I could do about it.  We grew apart, but still, my father asked every day when I came home from work where my ring was.  Hadn't Matty asked yet?

So when I finally found Matty she-banging some other girl, I finally had an acceptable excuse to break out of my cage.

Despite my apparent helplessness in the situation, my father was furious.  At me.  For not keeping him close, making him marry me if I had to.  Not doing my duty as a daughter, he said.  He found someone else to take Matty's place, locked me back up in my cage of forced domesticity with the son of some other Uncle Paulie.  Older, bad teeth.  I cannot remember this one's name. This replacement did not love me, nor did he try to.  But he knew his duty and that I was the spawn of my father, so it was a good enough match for all parties concerned.  Well almost all.  Of course, as the rebellious daughter, I had no say in this decision.  And so, I did the only the most logical thing and made a decision of my own.  A decision so unthinkable and unforgivable that it would cut all ties with my father and the Family forever.

I ran away with an Irishman.

Darla has no law degree, no penchant for engineering or technology.  And Skinny is no Irishman who loves her, treasures her, no.  She was born a woman, and for that horrible, unforgivable crime her father condemned her to life imprisonment someplace she had no desire to go.  Skinny, despite his outrageous absurdity, keeps her like an exotic animal on a leash, a dangerous, feral thing dressed up in diamonds and glitter.  She is not an animal, not a thing, but a woman.  Thinking, feeling, human.  But just the same she is going mad for want of freedom, for choice.  At one point in life I felt the same.

However, she is long gone, I see it in her eyes.  Her escape is violence, the power over life and death.  She has gained some semblance of power now, over Skinny, over the gang, over us.  Her bat is a gavel with which she indiscriminately metes out justice to a world that wronged her.  She does not want to run back to Daddy, to her gilded cage to be sentenced to a life without choice or freedom or power to some wasteland Matty.  She is no bargaining chip to help her Daddy climb the upper stands.  No, she has become a dog, enraged and maddened, frothing, by the leash.  She needs to lash out, to maim, to avenge herself upon us. Addicted to the thrill of bloodshed.

She wants to kill us.

Skinny says no, Darla, and holds out an obstructing hand.  She seethes, her eyes wide and nostrils flaring, her breath sharp with need.  She is starving for blood.  She will have it this day, one way or another.  She will not be denied, must not be.  Her hand tightens upon the bat in her rage, shaking like a junkie in need of a fix, and for a moment, her unending fury is not focused on us.  I see a chance.  Someone who is still a lawyer speaks in my voice.

Are you really listening to this clown?

She looks at me, surprised at my nerve to speak up, let alone insult the man leading a veritable firing squad.  Behind me, Piper hisses at me to keep my mouth shut.  Nick and the clown Skinny Malone simply stare, dumbstruck.  I am just as surprised.  Had I really said that?  I should be asking myself the same question.  Wait, no, I already did.  I can't take it back.  I had taken an enormous leap of faith.  I feel like I am falling, falling ever faster to my death.  

I swallow a growing lump in my throat.  Skinny's no good for you, Darla.  Be your own woman, don't lock yourself up in this Vault, shackle yourself to him.

What are you saying, Lady?  She remains filled to bursting with fiery rage, though its target remains the same.  My words have the ring of truth to them, for her.  She looks at me with her wild eyes, but I no longer feel the threat of her bat.  I feel stable now, I am not falling.  I am on solid ground.  Most importantly, I have the attention of the most dangerous person in the room.  Confidence rises up in me and I straighten, standing tall and proud despite the array of guns pointing at me.  The gangsters look among themselves in confusion at my sudden courage.  

You know exactly what I'm saying.

She looks away from me then, brow furrowed, to Skinny.  It is quiet, the only sound being the quiet, muted radio of my pip-boy.  The sultry voice of Betty Hutton fills the tense silence in the room, the soft, honeyed beginning of one of her most iconic songs. ... An intimate, sit-ee-ation.  And then begins this Romeo's conver-sa-tion!

Skinny's tiny eyes widen suddenly.  His fat mouth finally opens to some semblance of words as he sees the flash in his moll's eyes.  Murder, he says.  A fitting backtrack to what came next, I suppose, when Darla whacks him.

She is laughing like a maniac, Skinny is on the ground and suddenly all hell breaks loose.  Bullets are flying, there's shouting.  I don't remember much in the panic that ensued, but I do recall running, dragging a stunned Piper from the fray as the gang tore itself apart.  Nick is ahead of us.  Smart enough to run.  What I do remember most though is Darla's echoing laughter, like a hyena on the hunt, chasing us down those dark and dreary tunnels.  Even after we were gone aboveground and the Vault was far behind us, the laughter lingers in our minds.  

We are aboveground, we are safe I tell myself.  Yet, even when the laughter is far gone and the world is once dead and silent, I still feel on edge.  I look to the synth, Nick, and no.  He is speaking to Piper, shaking her hand.  He is not the threat.  No, I feel eyes upon us.  

Something moves in the shadows.  

I immediately fire a crackling laser into the darkness.  Piper yelps, Nick draws his gun, all of us looking off into the dark for whatever, or whoever, the shadow had been.  

There's nothing, what are you firing at?  Blue, are you okay?

No, I am not okay.  I will never be okay.  I function only through this constant adrenaline anymore.  I cannot shake the feeling of those eyes upon me, they are still there.  Still watching.  Always watching, can't you feel them?

But I do not say such things.

I tell them it was a misfire and return Righteous Authority into its home on my back.  We catch our breath as well as our minds, and after a short and very overdue introduction, we walk back to the great green jewel, shining like a beacon of safe haven in the dark and dreary night.  When we return, Piper offers to lend me her couch for the night if I tell her how I managed to turn the mob in on itself in the morning.  How I knew Darla would kill her own lover in cold-blooded murder.

I tell myself that I am not Darla.

But I know her, and I am not far from her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Fallout-typical light mention of gore and violence, PTSD/panic attack.

I strike him again. And again. And again. I strike Kellogg's hateful face again and again with Righteous Authority until he is nothing but a smear on the floor. Every muscle in my body screams from the pain of the multiple shots I have taken, but my mouth screams louder. Give me my son, you bastard, give me Shaun. You're lying, you bastard, he's not in the Institute where I will never find him. You bastard, you fucking bastard, I will find him. Those sorts of horrible things one says when, well, in a state of frenzy. The rage of an avenger powers me, giving me a strength I did not know I have. The memory of my husband, jaw stiffly askew and eyes frozen in panic, vault suit blossoming a vile brown just above his heart. I slam my rifle down upon him with a shriek, for Nate. The cries of my son at being torn from his loving father's arms, at the loudness of the gun, at the wailing of his young mother behind frozen glass, ring in my ears like sirens. My vision is red with anger. Maybe it's Kellogg's blood. My blood. Whatever it is, I do not care. Everything is red. I hit him again and again and again. Kellogg was dead long ago, but I do not care. I must avenge them. I strike and I strike and I strike until nothing is left.

But that, of course, is lie. There was no frenzy and there was no rage. While I certainly imagined, and still do imagine, myself doing such things, after our talk, which had been surprisingly civil, I did not bash Kellogg's brains out with my rifle. I did not shoot him, I did not even kill him. Perhaps indirectly I had, but I had not landed the killing blow as my heart had so longed for.

No, I had hesitated in killing him. I was no avenger. I was no valiant rescuer. I was, as I always was and always will me, simply me. I had thought, so stupidly, that he might yet have information on where my boy was. I had my rifle on him, a clean laser blast straight to the head, but for some stupid reason I can't remember I hesitated. Kellogg had not done the same. With a wholly inhuman speed he had drawn his weapon and loosed three shots at me. One found its mark in my arm, the other in my thigh. The third barely missed. Before I could process what was happening he gave me a swift kick in the wound on my leg, popped a Stealth Boy, and vanished into thin air.

I had dragged myself behind a console in the ensuing firefight, frantic hands stained red trying to stop the bleeding. I knew I would die if I didn't. I would die in this room, surrounded by synths. I felt cold as the blood gushed from me. It was the end. I was unable to avenge my husband, unable to save my baby. I had lost before anything had even begun.

But I had forgotten that I had not been alone. Nick, seeing me fall, fired his tiny pipe pistol and gave me cover as I crawled to safety. Once I was safe, he hurled a pulse grenade into the small army of synths before ducking beside me and shielding me. It burst, unleashing a crackling blast of electricity that made the synths go haywire. Reverse engineered Chinese tech such as the Stealth Boy was never too stable, I remember that well from both my soldier husband and from the engineers I so often worked with, and had a tendency to explode under extreme duress. If this wasn't extreme duress, I didn't know what was. It exploded, taking the frag grenade at his belt along with it.

I remember at the moment of that horrible blast Nick's yellow eyes blinking in and out, the lens not really remembering how to control themselves. He had not been immune to the blast, either. He said some gibberish, or maybe he spoke normally and I couldn't understand it. From his lips, maybe, are you alright. I remember crying, clinging to him, gibbering and crying like a child to stop the pain. When he left me upon the floor to deal with what enemies remained, I had begged him to stay, please, just hold me. Don't leave me, please. He stabbed something into me, Med-X, I think it had been, from the rush of cold that seared my veins.

Please, Nick, help me.

He shakily stood and readied his pistol, a blast hits him in the chest, searing through his signature trench. He grunts in frustration, perhaps, and continues firing, his unsteady hands and step sending bullet after bullet awry. He takes a laser blast to the chest and staggers, but does not stop firing. I remember before blacking out, in my Med-X high floating high and above the conflict blazing around me, if synths felt pain. Nick certainly did, or at least he thought he did. The thought scared me.

Then, suddenly, I fell into nothing.

Nick tells me that if the travelling doctor hadn't been passing by just outside the Fort, I would have died from my wounds. The bleeding had been too much for Nick and our meager supply of stims. And so, using what few caps we had had between us Nick had secured us passage with his caravan back to Diamond City. A stroke of dumb luck, he had called it, when I finally woke up. You've got a guardian angel watching over you, he said.

Maybe it was an angel, or maybe it was just Nick. He took care of me when we got back to Diamond City, even though he had done his part and helped me find Kellogg. He, Ellie and Piper helped me get back on my feet and walking again. They told me that their job wasn't done until Shaun was back in my arms, caps be damned. I had helped them all, albeit in my own fumbling way, and they assured me that they would help me until the end.

I didn't know what I had done to deserve such friends.

Now I stand here, back in the saferoom of Fort Hagen, looking over the rotting pieces of Kellogg and synth scattered about. Or is all of it Kellogg? I can't remember. He had been almost as synth as Nick was.

And the detective is beside me now, a cigarette dangling from his artificial lips. He sees me looking at him and those lips turn into a wry smile. That smile is not artificial, it is not synth, it is Valentine. I've learned that now, after my saving his life and him saving mine. I return the smile easily. He puts a metal hand on my shoulder and pats it before stepping further into the carnage, looking about for our quarry as he carefully and thoughtfully smokes. His mechanical eyes expand and dilate, analyzing.

Y'know, doll, he says between drags, you didn't have to come down here again. Bad memories and all. And also, well, the walk ain't good on that leg of yours at all. Or the stairs. Or the pack of super mutants we took care of on the way here. Now that I think about it, you really shouldn't be on that leg at all.

What? And let you run off and ruin that new coat I bought for you? Never. That cost caps, Nick.

You didn't need to buy me a new coat. My old one was just fine.

It was blasted to near cinders, if you remember. Besides, it was getting tattered anyway. This one looks nicer.

Aw, shucks. His face is ever straight, but his voice is amused. After a moment, his words become as stern as his expression. Still. New coat or not, I can do this for you. You saved my life, after all. I owe you big time.

Nick. You saved mine. You owe me no time, but, I'm not going to lie -- I appreciate the company.

I cross my arms defiantly and limp down the stairs. He chuckles and taps the ash from his cigarette, shaking his head. He uses his foot to turn over a piece of charred meat, a man once, but it is not what we are looking for. I bend down with a groan, lifting a metal arm to glance at some other piece of meat. Meat. All the happy teasing and lightheartedness leaves my body like a breath of air after a swift kick to the gut. That is what I must keep telling myself, this is meat, just meat, but my stomach turns at once knowing that this was a man. He may have been a vile man, but he was still a man. I look to synth, turning over piles of scrap and severed metal arms, and wonder if he felt the same. Had he had any qualms shooting his fellow synths to pieces protecting me?

Finally, in the corner beneath a pile of debris I see it. Them, rather. Two glassy orbs of brown staring wide-eyed at me. Kellogg's eyes, from his, his head. Just his head, severed from the rest of him in the blast. I touch a hand to my mouth, trying to keep my breakfast down.

Valentine is at my side again, his hand on my shoulder reassuring me. The touch of a friend, I think for a fleeting moment, before I shove those thoughts away. Far away. I need to focus. Nonetheless, he flicks his smoke to the ground and speaks. I'll get, well, it. You don't have to do this.

I gently push his hand aside, however well-meaning it might have been. I have to do this. Slowly, I limp over the broken bodies of machines and pieces of meat, pools of blood, a severed leg, towards Kellogg. Determined now, anger stirring within me, my thirst for vengeance rising like some horrible creature clawing its way up from inside my throat from some deep, forgotten recess inside of me. It scratches, it hurts, it burns. Risen, awaken.

Hungry.

I need to do this.

I kick the debris out of the way, biting back a groan as the pain rockets through my leg. I relish in it, the pain, every feeling of this horrible now. I shiver, knowing that the man who did this to me was dead, and I stood over his corpse. Responsible. Oh, it felt good, standing over him, knowing that I won. He is dead and I am not, and I am one step closer to finding my son. Kellogg may have hurt me, but he could no longer try and stop me. Whether Shaun was in the Institute or on goddamn Mars I would find him and bring him home.

And to do that, I need Kellogg's brains. His grey matter, specifically, as Dr. Amari had told us. As gruesome as it was, secretly, the nameless, black thing inside of me lusted for it. I raise Righteous Authority now, ready to bash open the head of the man responsible for all my life's woes. Oh, does it feel good to do this, this revenge, my pain and my agony fueling me, giving me the strength to do upon him what he did me.

Then I think of Nate, his empty stare, a bullet in his chest. Sagged over in the cryo pod like a dead pig in a freezer. My husband, frozen and bloody and lifeless like a hunk of old meat. I remember he still smelled like his cologne from the day when the bombs fell. He reeked of it. He always put too much on, my Nate. He wasn't a man to put on airs, being a nobody butcher from Southie, and so when he met my father who hated him or when he was preparing for the veteran's day speech that scared him, he would put on what he thought to be a perfectly decent amount of cologne. For me, I think. To impress the rich daddy's girl I had been so long ago, probably. To prove he wasn't just some nobody butcher from Southie. You could smell him coming before you could see him over the horizon, my mother would always say, but he's a good boy, for a potato eater.

Hush, Ma, I'd always say right back, I love him for it.

And that beloved smell of him was preserved in full force when I opened his pod that fateful day, so much so I got sick. No, that's the smell of Kellogg's rotten head beneath me right now. It's not my Nate's cologne. How dare I think such a thing. I ready Righteous Authority once more, ready to bring it down. Those eyes stare up in me, frozen wide like Nate's had been, locked into permanent surprise. Kellogg, like all men, had not expected death. Righteous Authority hangs ready, still, to bash open the head of the man who wronged me.

He is still a man like any other, despite what he did to me. A human being stares up at me now, eyes bugging and lined with blood. Grotesque. I cannot bring my rifle down. I now know why I hesitated. The terrible monster within me is gone in an instant, and I am grateful for its absence. My breath shakes, from the stench, from the effort of holding the damn rifle up. I let both it and my arms fall back to my sides.

I cannot kill him even after I have killed him, this man who so utterly destroyed everything that I loved in life, I cannot kill even this man. I cannot smash him open even when I need his insides to find my boy. It's weakness, here in the Commonwealth. If I cannot kill a man, he will kill me. He very nearly succeeded in doing so, had it not been for Nick. But I cannot keep depending on Prestons and Nicks and guardian angels to keep me safe, not here in the wasteland. I need to learn to fight for myself. To embrace that horrible monster of hate and violence inside of me and grow stronger for it. I need to, but my muscles won't move.

I'm scared. I don't want to become Darla, to become Kellogg. Mindless animals hungry for blood and gore, maiming and killing all who stand in their way. Kellogg is dead, but mutilating a corpse? The thought sickens me, no matter what kind of monster is being mutilated. I'm not that person, and I don't ever want to be. But, then again, do I really have the luxury of thinking that way?

I feel Nick's hand on my shoulder. He does not need to say anything. I slowly nod, biting down on my lip in my horrible shame, and step away. I hear the sound of Nick's metal fingers grasp a chunk of concrete, the big heavy one. A grunt of effort as he lifts it high and, and then a sickening, wet crunch that makes my heart stop. Like a watermelon being crushed.

Eugh, disgusting. Nick coughs, despite his glaring lack of lungs or any true sense of smell. He doesn't need them. The sound of wet squelching as he digs through whatever horrible mess I can't look at is more than enough. We need to do this, I tell myself, hugging my arms tightly. My knuckles are white. Death is everywhere, I can't escape it. And if I don't wield it myself, it will come for me. If it hasn't already come to Shaun while I've been fumbling around the ruins of Boston. What kind of mother am I if I can't even do this for Shaun?

Nick was right. I shouldn't have come.

 

 

 

Goodneighbor is not Diamond City, it is a violent and filthy place filled with crime and drugs and every other vice one can think of, but it feels much more like home than the great green jewel ever could. It is similar to my life before, what with all its uncles Peters and Paulies patrolling the streets in their clean dapper clothing, Tommies at the hip. One of them, a ghoul at the gates with large, bright eyes tips his hat to me. I'm a lover and a fighter darlin', if you know what I'm sayin', he always says in his gravelly old Boston accent as I passed by, the big flirt. I shoot him a friendly wink. His face is grotesque, but after getting to know the man after several passes through Goodneighbor, the man has a good heart. He laughs at me and lets me pass through into the settlement.

In the weeks I have spent in the Commonwealth, I think I have finally found solid footing. I can protect myself for the most part, and the sight of a ghoul no longer terrifies me. Non-feral ones, anyway. For the moment, I am stable again, stronger. Confident. I am me again.

Nick had gone ahead to Goodneighbor at Diamond City while I had resupplied, so for the first time I walk through the gate alone. It does not go unnoticed. A man walks up to me, some nobody street thug Finn, I think his name is. Starts talking about insurance. I am not clueless, I know perfectly well what kind of insurance he is selling. I must seem like easy pickings, what with my bright blue vault suit and soft, round pre-war face and curves. I must look like I haven't spent a day of my life in hardship. Fat with privilege and likely laden with caps, this man Finn must think, compared to the skeletal, penniless drifters and junkies wandering the streets. His broad stance and the crookedness to his smile says as much.

I look to the guard Bright Eyes, but he simply looks right back at me, then gestures back to Finn. Go on, he says, I'm not about to interrupt a man's business proposition. I roll my eyes. Of course in a town run by mobsters, one can't exactly expect the straight and narrow. I am on my own here.

I cross my arms and look back up to Finn, raising a brow. Unless it's keep-dumb-assholes-away-from-me insurance, I don't think I'm interested.

He seems genuinely amused by my boldness, and steps forward, blowing a cloud of smoke in my face. His breath reeks. I cough. At this small break in my composure he continues in the mobster way of thinly veiled threats. Hand over everything I own or find myself dead in a big, bloody accident. I look him over. Leather jacket, a mean look in his eye, and a combat knife in his boot. Not a huge threat, but still a threat. A manageable threat I was no stranger to handling even in my teenage years. He is no Kellogg.

But.

In the distance against the wall of Daisy's, I see one of the drifters take interest in our conversation. His back straightens as soon as the threat is made and he makes a move to walk over. I cannot read his face behind the sunglasses, and I am careful not to show my taking notice of him. He could be an accomplice or a partner in this shakedown, whoever he is. I cannot let that I know anything, lest it escalate into something I cannot win. I place a hand on my hip, just above the pouch where my pistol is stashed. I may be new to the Commonwealth, but I am no stranger to men like Finn.

I do not answer him, and instead light a cigarette of my own. I take a deep drag, as if thinking over his ludicrous request, and then blow a cloud of smoke right back at him. He steps back and wafts the smoke away in annoyance, and I see an opening. Just like my father taught me when I was a girl, I lunge forward. A knee straight into the groin and the palm of my hand up as hard as I can to break the nose. They land in one swift movement with a satisfying crunch. He stumbles back and with my other foot hook it behind his ankle. He falls hard onto his back, and his knife slips out of his boot. I kick it away and the blade skitters across the cobblestones to clatter against the far wall of the mayor's statehouse. In a split second Righteous Authority is my hands, armed and ready to fire. Right at his head.

I said no.

At staring straight up the barrel of a Brotherhood laser rifle, Finn is singing another tune in no time at all, laughing and saying it was all just a joke, I should not overreact, pointless flattery and so on and so forth. I poke the barrel into his forehead for good measure, letting him know that I could kill him if I wanted to. He bites back his laughter and apologizes frantically for his behavior, begging for mercy. At that, I smile and lower my weapon. I won't kill him. And to be honest, Diamond City didn't have enough microfusion cells to even power back up my giant rifle, let alone allow it to fire, and was nothing more than a very scary-looking bludgeon at the moment. My pistol had protected me on the way here, but a tiny 10mm doesn't quite have the same effect of intimidation as the high-tech fury of the Brotherhood. That much is evident from the look of terror upon my former assailant's face.

Luckily, Finn did not catch on to my bluff and scampered away without any further issue, thanking me profusely for my gracious mercy. The drifter who had nearly gotten himself involved is back to leaning against the wall of Daisy's, a smirk on his face. He carefully tries to hide his amusement as well as his interest in me. I narrow my eyes and begin to walk towards him.

Whoa, whoa. Time out, sister.

Hancock strides up to me from the shadow of an alleyway with the same boisterous loudness to his step as his ridiculous outfit, and waves me over. I look back to the drifter, but strangely enough, he has vanished. But Hancock, fabled mayor and only person in the Commonwealth able to control the chaos of Goodneighbor, was all too there. I quickly secure Righteous Authority to the straps on my back. What unspoken rule had I broken to make the fabled mayor of Goodneighbor descend from his fancy state house drug den? He bends down to pick up Finn's fallen knife and absently flips it like a toy in his skilled hands, walking towards me foot before foot, like a wolf on the prowl.

Did that asshole Finn really deserve that much humiliation? Jesus. He laughs and steps closer to me, a smile upon his face. I'm careful to keep my distance, out of range of that knife in his hands. Seeing my caution his friendly smile turns into a much more genuine smirk and offers the handle of the knife to me. I do not hesitate in taking it, much preferring the blade in my hands than in his. Or stuck between my ribs. Almost as if he had expected a trade, or perhaps simply because he could, he snatches the cigarette from my mouth and sticks it between his own ragged lips. He continues. Didn't know you had in you, being a vault dweller and all. Usually soft and dumb, your kind. But not you, it seems, mm?

I shrug, not once taking my eyes off of the ghoul and my cigarette between his lips. Rumors floating about town were explicit in the details of his violent coup and unchallenged, total rule over Goodneighbor. Though he was universally loved by his people, his ruthlessness in dealing with those who wronged him was near infamous. I hope in defending myself I have not wronged him.

Good on you standing up to him, sister. Finn's been chasing away too many guests with that extortion crap of his. Good to see some sense knocked into him for a change. He exhales through his nose, well, nasal cavity rather, looking me over with his dark, ghoulish eyes. He is by no means a tall or muscular man, nor handsome by any means whatsoever. But the man oozes an impossible charisma, that could not be denied. He is the Boss here, and I a stranger encroaching on his territory, sending one of his cronies running off like a beaten animal. Well, that probably made him and his people look bad, weak, and that just wouldn't do. He speaks, his voice the picture of warm and easy friendliness that makes my skin crawl. So what brings you to Goodneighbor?

Memory Den.

Ah, dangerous drug, that. I can appreciate that. Hancock, after a few puffs on my cigarette, offers it back with a chem-stained smile. I politely refuse and he shrugs, instead jutting out his arm out towards me. Care to let me walk you there?

Oh, he was offering to walk me there?

No, it isn't a offer or request, not here in front of all the eyes of Goodneighbor. It is a challenge. He is showing himself off, and refusing him would be suicide. That much I know. I hesitantly take his arm. I had nearly killed one of his people, and now I was letting me escort me places. Would he walk me to a quiet alley and whack me there? I feel myself sweat.

Where is Nick? He was supposed to meet me here, wasn't he? I say nothing, and instead look to the alleys.

But first! Announced the flamboyant ghoul to all the world and not particularly to me, stringing me along as he began walking, To KL-E-O's, considering you don't have any ammo! What. A. Travesty. A big girl's gotta have a big gun, sure, but what's a big gun without any rounds? I pity the one who gets get caught with an empty weapon -- almost as much as the prick who nearly pisses himself after being threatened by one. So, KL-E-O, baby. Get this gal some fusion cells, would you? On me.

After treating me to the best of KL-E-O's stock, he whirls me off through the alleys of Goodneighbor at a leisurely stroll, tipping his hat grandiosely at those we passed by. I dare not let go of his arm, lest I further offend the man, but what I want to do is hide. I was noticeable enough in the vaultsuit, but on the arm of the most powerful man in town, I am a magnet for stares and sidelong whispers. I feel them upon me, boring into me like lasers. It is a dangerous place, at Hancock's side.

It is not a long walk to the Memory Den by any means. While having been an incredibly short distance, it felt like an eternity, and surely ny now, every person in Goodneighbor knows my face. That is dangerous, should I step on the wrong toes. Righteous Authority, the winged saber and gears on display for all to see upon the stock, feels like an anchor upon my back. I am a potential threat to these people. They didn't know me like the gate guard Bright Eyes had gotten to, what with my visits having been supply runs and a quick meeting with the good doctor before leaving first thing in the morning. No, I had never stayed long enough to be truly noticed, and especially not by the mayor. Not to mention I hadn't been paraded through the entire town by said mayor. No, now everyone sees my face, sees my weapon, knows that I dared stand up to the business of Goodneighbor, and they see the mark of Brotherhood upon my back. It is a target that is upon my back, now. I feel it. It was all too easy to step on toes.

And lost in my thoughts and my growing worry, I step on the Mayor's toes with a grimy, dusty boot. The world stops in an instant. I cannot believe myself, and immediately remove my foot from his for fear of having hurt him, or worse yet, horribly disrespected him. I had heard tales of him doing horrible, terrible things to people for much, much less. What tales would be told about me?

Instead of impending doom, I hear laughter. I slowly open my eyes to see Hancock laughing at me.

Am I really that intimidating, sister? He slaps a hand on my back suddenly in his raucous laughter, and I feel myself flinch at his touch. But there is no secret blade or claws or a bullet or anything, just a slap on the back with a hand like any other. I look at him then, laughing at me. Wisps of scraggly blonde hair poke out from beneath his tricorner cap, and his face scarred and hideous as it had become from the rads or the drugs or whatever had happened to him, still turns upwards in a good-natured and sincere smile. His face is dimpled, on the right cheek, still there despite the, well, state of him. His laugh, as hoarse and rough as it is, is pleasant. Infectious. Jesus, he says as he wipes a tear away from a dark and cloudy eye, I'm thankful, you know, for dealing with Finn. He's been a royal pain in my ass for weeks now. Humiliating him like that, well. Was a damn work of art, what you did. Quite the bluff.

He is loud, life to him is loud. His outfit, his voice, his gait, his everything. He is loud to me, to the town, to everyone that I am the Vault Dweller who sent Finn running with his tail between his legs. He hides nothing. I still want to hide. No man liked getting his ass handed back to him by a woman, much less some waifish vault dweller with an empty rifle. Hancock's little parade around town was like rubbing salt into a fresh wound, and surely, Finn would avenge himself upon me after he was done licking his wounded pride. I clear my throat and tell him such. I wasn't looking for trouble, just trying to get back to the Memory Den, to Nick. It's important.

In such a hurry to get away from me, eh?

Oh, god, no -- th-that's not what I meant, Mayor--

He interrupts me with another laugh. Goddamn, it's a joke! I'm thanking you here, sister. Thanking you! Besides, it was ol' Nicky-boy who asked me to walk you here in the first place. Make sure you get here in one piece and all that. Well, obviously, you didn't need it. You're a girl who can handle herself. I like that. So I thought I'd be a gentleman and walk you here anyway. He takes one last drag from my stolen cigarette before flicking it to the cobblestones.

I, um, you're welcome...?

Let's see... weird-ass name. Sol, was it? So it is Sol? Well, Sol, call me Hancock. No need to go about Mayoring me, this ain't some formal shindig. And also. No need to be so nervous, said Hancock before drawing his arm back and gesturing to the dilapidated neighborhood around them. You're in Goodneighbor! Of the people, for the people. And, well. Valentine says you're good people. A good neighbor, if you will. You're welcome here any time you'd like.

But Finn--

\-- he won't bother you nothing. Not after our little walk through town. He and every other piece of garbage like him knows now that if they cross you or Nick, they cross me. You dig? He gives me a devilish grin before turning to walk back to the state house. Without turning back, he gives me a small wave. You need anything, Sol Sister, you know where to find me.

From the shadows comes a woman, former or even current Raider from the looks of her, joins him. She looks back to me, her eyes cold and a wry smirk half veiled behind a half-headed rag of flaming red hair and faded warpaint. Her hand lingers on her pistol, letting me know just how close I had been to death had I stepped the slightest bit our of line, before letting it fall languidly back to her side. I could have died on a whim had she decided I had not been worth the time. I see that in her easy smile, at the flash of fire in her eyes. She is dangerous.

Hancock, ten times that. She had felt that in his touch, in his eyes, in his voice. The way people had parted like the very sea before holy men, whispering amongst themselves and staring wide-eyed and awestruck at the tiny ghoul in a ridiculous costume and swagger. He was more than a man like Skinny, dressing up in fancy clothes and threatening and waddling his way into power. This woman was not some chained maniac like Darla. No, this was a man who inspired his crew, who cared for his crew, who loved them as much as they loved him. They would live and die for this man, this ghoul, and that was the most fearsome of all.

Cross you, and they cross me. Those had been his words. She would safe from Finn, that was for certain. No man in his right mind would attack the interests of Hancock, not unless he wanted the whole of Goodneighbor coming down upon his sorry ass. Yet it is a frightening prospect. Such protections from such men are not without equitable prices, and such privileges could be revoked just as easily as they are given. I could easily meet the same fate as Finn, should I cross the good mayor. Cross me and I cross you.

I let out the breath that had caught in my throat and touch a hand to my chest, trying to steady myself. My heart is racing.

Goodneighbor reminds me of home, what with the guns and the glares and the loud and boisterous men throwing their weight around every which way. They're just a bit uglier here is all. Wear more colorful outfits, is all. Guns and money and drugs and sex: Goodneighbor reeks of it.

In its own way, it is exhilarating. Liberating. Free.

It reminds me of why I had been so eager to escape it all.

 

 

 

My head is on fire. My eyes are watering, dear God, oh Lord above in heaven, I can't see. Everything is dark. I feel the pod around me, still clamped shut. Where am I? Oh god, I'm back in the pod, Nate is there, screaming. Shaun, crying. Frozen, so damn cold, trapped. Dear god, if you are there, please help me oh god, oh god, please. I slam my weary, exhausted arms against the glass. I can't still be trapped, was this all some sort of dream? I have to save my husband, I have to save my son.

A pop and a hiss of air, an electric whir. Oh god, oh god, Kellogg is coming for me. I hear his voice, like sandpaper grating against the insides of my head. Resounding and throbbing pain, deafening. Kellogg is here for me. Opening up the frozen TV dinner and popping a cap into her. Dear god, I'm going to die. I scramble from the pod, but, but I slam my head on the released door. I fall to the floor. Everything hurts, I can't move, I can't breathe. Oh god. Something stabs me in the chest.

I've been shot.

The pain, sharp, burning pain searing through my veins brings me back to my senses. Lights flash, impossibly bright. Where am I? Am I dead?

Are you alright?

My vision clears. A friendly face appears before me, the good Doctor Amari. I am on the floor of the Memory Den. I have not been shot, just injected with an enormous stimpack to clear the pain. I have just walked through Kellogg's mind, and echoes of him linger in mine. Memories of his youth, of his family, his vengeance, and the cold repetition of history he had wrought upon mine.

He was a man like any other. And for that, I hate him more than any other.

Amari helps me up into a chair and she checks to see how I am. My head is on fire. She tells me some feat of science, residual mnemonic echoes, neurons? I don't know the semantics and I don't care. I never want to do this again. I am in pain in more ways than one, and yet, this woman drones on and on, asking question after question I can't even hear. Her mouth moves, her hand is on my shoulder, her eyes wide with the need to know. All I hear is Kellogg, his horrible voice in my thoughts. Shut her up, he says, you have a pistol, don't you? Use it.

Get out of my head.

I slam my hands on my head, trying to drown him out, beat him out. Anything to get him away. It hurts. it all hurts. So, so bad. Amari grabs my hands and I try to tear them back. I need Kellogg out of my brain. I try to rip my hands away from her but her grasp holds true. With a skilled and practiced hand, she plunges another stimpack into me. The medicine tears through me, burning me like wildfire, but after a moment it subsides. Along with it goes the pain.

The panic subsides. But the memories of Kellogg are still there, raw and so very fresh. Burned into my brain like a searing brand. His laugh echoes through my head until the dull ache of the medicine drowns it out.

Breathe, says Amari, just breathe, Miss Sol.

We sit for several moments as I breathe. In, out, in, out. My breathing is ragged as my body tries to reunite with my frantic mind. I feel disjointed, horribly and indescribably awful and almost broken. There is too much in my mind, what was it, neurons restructuring themselves? Oh, god, it had hurt. It still hurts, but in a way that is just plain wrong. I can't make sense of anything. I stand, or try to. Amari pulls me back down into the chair and demands to know what happened.

I tell her everything. Virgil, the Institute, teleportation. I need to get it out and I fling the information at her. It feels poisonous.

I feel violated by it. Get it away from me.

She opts to say nothing further, for which I am thankful. Instead, she simply states that they could talk more, but she thinks Nick would like to see me. He is waiting upstairs, do you think you can make it?

I nod dumbly, numbly. My limbs are lead, my mind destroyed. I need Nick, to hear his jokes, to feel his presence. Friend.

The stairs are a challenge, but I conquer them even with my stumbling, fumbling feet. The painted, feathered woman presiding over the little metal portals to hell offers to help me. I wave her away. I am a poisonous thing, wrong. Disjointed, my thoughts are not my own, Kellogg is in there somewhere, hiding. He is not dead, he will never be dead. He is inside me. Don't touch me. Don't bring him out.

But Nick, Nick is safe. Friend. Synth, but a man deep inside. My friend. I stumble towards him, but my wobbling legs cannot carry me far enough. I fall against the memory pod nearest to him, some faceless drifter in shades laying inside. He is jolted aware by my stumbling, but I do not care. The world is swimming with the effort of walking.

Nick, I say like a child, voice wavering like my mind and body, gasping for air in my sea of confusion and terror, Nick, I know how to find Shaun, Nick. We can, we can find him now. Glowing Sea. Nick, we've got it.

He stands then, brushing off the dust from his coat and looks at me with those mechanical eyes I had now become accustomed to. They whir and buzz, adjusting as if he is seeing me for the first time. The pod has wrought havoc upon his mind as well, it would seem. What was it? Neurons torn apart and stitched together? He steps towards me and places his metal hand upon my shoulder. The illumination of his eyes flicker slightly, a brow twitches erratically.

Something is off.

Suddenly he clamps his grip down, hard. His metal claws pierce my vaultsuit and dig deep into in my skin. At my shriek he lets out an all too familiar laugh, one that is not that of Valentine. My pain becomes terror. Kellogg has infected him as he has violated me. They are his eyes, his mind, staring down and boring into my flesh through the chassis that had once housed Nick.

Hope you got what you were looking for inside my head, Kellogg says, the synth face unemotional and cold, robotic, as its mouth exudes his voice like some sort of speaker, I was right. Should've killed you when you were on ice.

I tear myself away, seeing my blood on Nick's hand, staining the shoulder of my jumpsuit. Like Nate, a dark bloom on his chest. Nate is dead. But his killer is back, alive again in the body of what I had thought was my friend. I had brought him back. Dear God, it couldn't be.

It can't be, I can't let it.

My hand finds my pistol and I draw it, pointing it with trembling hands at the synth. Irma shrieks and the man in the pod I lean on pounds his fist against the glass, his shouting muffled and incomprehensible. My vision is bleary from the tears and the fear and I can't aim. The synth simply stares at me, unmoving. The pistol is impossibly heavy in my hands.

Kellogg? Is, is that you?

He remains silent and horrifically still, like a corpse standing.

Say something, god damn it!

The synths eyes flicker into darkness before blazing once more into fullness. It furrows its brow in confusion and slowly raises its hands in surrender at the sight of the gun. Nick speaks from its mouth. What? What's going on?

I am hysterical with the fear and the pain and the wrongness of it all. My bloody shoulder stings with the effort of holding the gun. The synth that is now Nick sees my blood on his hand and stares at it, his plastic face turning into one of horror. He steps back from me.

Sol, what's going on?

I am no longer myself.

I fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to dianekepler and LooseCanon for the kind comments as well as to those who left kudos! I'm so happy you like my story, and I hope I can keep writing something you can all enjoy. : )
> 
> I should be posting the next chapter sometime this weekend. Please let me know what you think in the comments, and again, thank you so much for your support!!


	4. Chapter 4

The journey is silent. Or, at least, it is supposed to be. In the fight against the Concord Deathclaw my Pip-Boy had been crushed and mangled to the point where the radio just wouldn't shut off anymore. So Diamond City radio and its horrible DJ narrate our steps and songs of men and women long dead fill the resounding silence of the Wasteland. I switch my radio again and again to the air force broadcast, listening desperately and hoping against all hope for any sign from the Paladin and his squad. The giant airship still floats off behind the city skyline, a beautiful and completely unreachable beacon of hope in the distance.

I remember the Paladin's promise. The Brotherhood. Whoever they were, they would have me and they would help me. It was my last hope. Preston's words echo in the back of my mind, but he could not help me. He had an entire Commonwealth to protect as the General of the Minutemen. Piper was just a journalist, and besides, she had a little sister to care for. And Nick.

Nick.

Every time the radio is silent. Every time I turn my radio back to DCR to tune out the world around me.

And so it is to mocking laughter and joyful melodies that I walk now through the ruins of Boston, picking through bits and pieces of garbage for something to eat. In a wasteland with two hundred years of being picked over, there is not much. I manage to find a half-emptied bottle of what kind of looks like whiskey and a single Fancy Lad's Snack Cake. My stomach grumbles angrily. If only we had resupplied properly at Goodneighbor.

Goodneighbor. I don't want to think about it. I push the memory out of my mind.

Suddenly, a gunshot. I whip out my pistol and look around frantically for the enemies that must be bearing down upon us. A very small man with a very large rifle stares me down from a few yards away.

Relax, boss, says MacCready with a triumphant smirk, I just shot us some breakfast. He walks towards me with the bravado and confidence of a man twice his size to pick up a decently sized radroach, its head shot clean off. I do not bother to veil my disgust. He is a good shot and despite it being what it is, it would make for a decent meal. At least in filling our bellies. But MacCready, as good a mercenary as he is, is not the best travelling companion right now.

His smile hurts me.

He shrugs at my apparent indifference and hands me the carcass before looking for more. I watch him as I lash it to my pack. MacCready had not asked questions as to why I had immediately needed to leave Goodneighbor, nor had he asked questions as to why I needed to get to Cambridge. Every cap to my name, as relatively meager that total had been, had secured his loyalty quite assuredly. It had been days since we had left Goodneighbor, days since the incident in the Memory Den.

I find myself wondering how Nick is doing. No, not Nick -- Kellogg. No, not even him, he still had Nick in him. The synth? Yes, the synth. Three days ago I shot at the synth called Nick Valentine after he had been possessed by the ghost of Kellogg. I had not stayed to know whether Nick -- no, Kellogg -- no... the machine was still alive. I had been thoroughly spooked and had fled immediately, and it was only through some miracle that I was able to escape with a hired gun to protect me before anyone was sent after me.

I look around us, watchful of the shadows.

Another gunshot, another whoop of victory. MacCready has shot true again. My mercenary companion shoots me a grin and holds up his quarry like a trophy. MacCready is young despite what he lets on, and bits of his youthfulness peeks out from behind the cold, hard shell life in the wasteland has forged for him. I see that young man now in him as he runs to me to show me his kill, boasting like a child about what he done.

I'm a great shot, you know. For the price of just a few more caps, you'd be able to keep these guns past Cambridge, boss. He cradles his rifle in one arm as he flexes the other, making a wholly ridiculous face in doing so.  
An effort to make me laugh. He is goodhearted, despite his outward coldness.

I turn away. He lets out a defeated sigh and after lashing the second roach beside the first, begins walking back to camp. I walk closely behind. Our search for food had taken us some way from camp, and we had not dared enter Cambridge lest we become food for the ghouls that infested it. The trek back is long and hard, through forgotten labyrinths of alleyways and collapsed buildings.

We come finally upon our camp, a small ruined house overlooking the road into Cambridge. MacCready sets to working on the fire and breakfast. I let my pack drop and get to nursing my aching feet. My vault-tec boots are nearly worn through after hiking halfway across the Commonwealth in them. Bled through and crusted with blood. My feet cannot take much more, and neither can I.

MacCready looks up from the fire at my feet and shakes his head, saying something about finding better shoes later. Then he takes what whiskey is left and upends it over the roaches. Before I can protest the waste of perfectly good liquor, he speaks. You know, he says through the wafting clouds of good whiskey smoking away, this is a little thing my Lucy taught me. Makes shi-- crap taste like, well, not crap. A bit of whiskey and a puff of jet on a radroach cooked right in the shell. So delicious it might put a smile even on your face.

After a few more minutes of smoking, he hands me a chunk on a broken board. I scoop some meat out of the shell, and I know instantly he is not lying. After subsisting purely off of stale two-hundred year old food and the occasional slimy mirelurk, actually cooked food is a godsend. In moments it is gone and I'm reaching for another piece, sucking at my fingers to get every last drop of flavor. A broad smile lights up the mercenary's face.

Ha! I was right. He slaps his hands on his duster and munches leisurely on a chunk of his own. He chatters away through a mouthful of food at me, and for the first time in our trip, I don't mind it. He speaks of a settlement of children called Little Lamplight, where he had evidently been mayor at one point, of some Vault Dweller who stumbled in. Almost blew off her head, funny enough. When he came up to the Commonwealth and ran with the Gunners for a spell. Of the time when he met Lucy and had their son--

He stands, makeshift plate still full of food sent clattering to the ground, rifle at the ready. A rumbling resounds throughout the air and breaks the wisps fog like a knife, tossing it about like waves of water. A Brotherhood of Steel Vertibird. It slowly touches to a landing on the police station, and men and women in full power armor swarm out. I feel the air catch in my throat and I immediately turn the dial on my pip-boy back to the broadcast signal.

And there was the Paladin's voice, loud and clear, calling for any and all Brotherhood personnel as well as the new Brotherhood recruit to report to the Cambridge police station immediately. Transport to the Prydwen is ready and waiting.

Relief washes over me. The Brotherhood was still there for me, waiting for me.  They would help me find my son.

Jesus fu-- frickin', frackin' -- screw it, shit! MacCready is breathing hard, rifle held close to his chest as he presses himself to the wall. He slowly peeks out from the window, and catching sight of the glinting suits of power armor, swears again. He loads his rifle and gestures to me. Boss, boss. We need to get out of here. Now. Brotherhood's bad news.

No, no, it's okay. I came here for them.

MacCready blinks once. Twice. He looks at me as if I have grown three heads. His mouth opens for a moment, then closes. After a moment of complete and utter bewilderment, he manages a what.

Yeah. These guys are my last chance at finding my son, MacCready.

MacCready narrows his eyes. You didn't tell them that, did you? That you're looking for your son? You told them that you have a son?

Yeah, of course. They were even willing to help me. Why?

Christ. How stupid are you, lady? He loads his rifle and after taking another peek out the window, kicks dust and dirt over the fire and gathers our things. He throws Righteous Authority into my arms and gestures wildly at me to ready it. I find myself staring at him, alarmed at his response. He continues speaking as he scrambles, his voice shaking and frantic. This, this isn't what I signed up for. Crap. Crap! We're getting out of here before they find you. Now. You're not going to the goddamn Brotherhood, not if I can help it.

No.

Excuse me, but what?

I said no. I strap Righteous Authority to my pack and stand to face him. They're my best chance at finding my baby. I need them. And they need me too.

MacCready scoffs. Oh, they need you, huh. Definitely. But do you even know why they need you, lady? Do you know why they need some stupid, useless vault dweller who can't even shoot a target five feet in front of her? Jesus. Just listen to me and scram. These guys are... just leave while you still can. I'll get you back to Diamond City where it's safe.

No, I can't go back. I need to find my baby. Why doesn't he understand?

Valentine'll help you there. I know what happened in Goodneighbor was rough, but you're in a bad place. He understands that. He'll forgive you, hell, Hancock already did -- otherwise we wouldn't have been able to fricking leave Goodneighbor in one piece. And I get where you're coming from, more than most. Just think about what you're doing before you go and do it. I won't let them get you like they almost got Lucy. So just come on, let's get out of here before... he continues rambling, continues trying to shove me out the door and away. Far away, he says. Far, far away. I stare out at that sparkling Vertibird atop the police station, the sunbeams dancing off the knights far below us. I see hope, safety, refuge.

An island shrouded by mist, open and welcoming. I don't want to drown anymore in this raging sea.

I shove him right back. He staggers and stares at me, wide-eyed as if I had just shot him. A moment of long, tense silence passes between us. He narrows his eyes and with an exasperated harrumph, digs around in his duster for something. He produces the pouch of caps I had given him.

He throws it on the ground between us, sending precious, precious caps scattering all about the ruined house. Walk a hundred miles if I knew there was a pile of caps waiting for me at the end, I remember him telling me once. I stare at the caps, then back to him. His face is red with fury, frustration, and some other emotion I can't quite place.

You're crazy, you're fricking crazy. MacCready voice shakes, and with a sharp breath through his teeth kicks the rest of the bag at me and grimaces in disgust, or maybe in pain. Take your stupid caps, you idiot. I can't take 'em. I'm no slaver. Fuck you.

And before I can say anything, he's gone.

I stand alone in the house, surrounded by caps and quiet and garbage. MacCready's words echo in my head. Slaver? What on earth does he mean by that? I shake my head to dislodge the thoughts. The loss of the merc is no skin off my nose, I remind myself, he wanted my caps is all. And when the job went south he left. That's all.

I'm not making another mistake. I'm doing what's best for Shaun. Yes, what's best for Shaun.

After gathering my things I head down to the station. It is an easy hike, and the light rest had done wonders for my feet. Well, looks like I lost my potential shopping partner, too. Surely the Brotherhood would have some boots to spare. Yes. I walk foot after foot, one two, one two. A march, a dirge. Again, I am in a city that used to house a university. There are no longer ghouls, but foul smelling smoke rises from the square. They are burning the bodies.

I think of Hancock and his bright, happy smile. I shake the memory from my head and march on. One two, one two. Foot after foot.

I feel hollow.

I am stopped at the gate of the station by a man in power armor and a woman with a laser pistol. He asks who I am. I tell him. He does not believe me until I show him Righteous Authority. He leaves to fetch the Paladin.

And so I stand now in front of a building that was once a police station, a gun to my head and the smell and feel of death all about me. The taste of MacCready's food is gone, blasted away by the stench of burning flesh. I tell myself once more that I made the right decision. I did, didn't I?

I see the Paladin exit the building, looking ever straight-laced and together despite the circumstances. The knight points to me and his eyes follow. They immediately widen and his mouth, for the shortest of moments, erupts into a joyous smile. He quickly hides it behind a cough and strides up to me. His footsteps feel like earthquakes in his massive armor.

I feel myself let out a sigh of relief. Paladin, I say warmly, rendering a small salute.

His smile returns, and he returns the salute.

Recruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapters were getting wildly long. Woah! Thank you dianekepler for reining me in. 
> 
> I'll do my best to keep updating regularly! Thank you as always for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed my work so far!
> 
> I have also written a small story about Lucy and MacCready here at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16394453


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to dianekepler for the kind fic recommendation as well as the ever-present support. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope I can continue to please. 
> 
> Enjoy!

I know that Nate had been a distinguished paratrooper from his many letters from the front, jumping like a maniac from all manner of planes and 'birds and all sorts of things. Falling with style, he had called it, my Nate, in his many letters. He never described the planes or where he jumped, but from his clumsy, clunky writing I knew every detail of the exhilarating and impossible freedom one felt flying through the air. He loved it.

Almost as much as he loved me, according to his words. He wrote always that he missed me. That he'd hijack a 'bird next chance he got and fly right on back to Massachusetts if it meant seeing me again. Court martial be damned. What an idiot -- I loved him so. I always wrote back to him telling him. such, and that things were going well with everything back home. The Family was even helping me, the traitorous woman who dared marry a potato eater, when I discovered I was pregnant with Shaun. I wrote also that after his tour was done and after our little surprise was born, we should fly together to someplace exciting. Maybe Vegas.

But he had not come back, not right away. And we never went to Vegas.

He returned to a home he had never seen before and to a child neither of us had expected. I remember keenly the sight of him struggling to crutch up the step of our new home in Sanctuary Hills, a smile as unsteady and wavering as his jerking step. His leg was gone. His dress uniform adorned with shiny ribbons and metals was almost comically large and loose atop his atrophied muscles, and then it got tangled in his prosthetic. He nearly tripped, more than once.

I had stood stunned in the doorway. It had been the Rosa boy I was watching at the time who finally went to help him. I watched my husband in horror as he lurched forward, inch by inch. Clumsy. Broken. I did not move, I could not move.

I had received the letter from his command, of course, of his capture. His mutilation at the hands of the Reds. But I hadn't really believed it. I couldn't. Surely, my cheery, beautiful Nathan was still alive and well. He'd come back and everything would be fine. But I watched him then, struggling with the shortest of steps, a teenager and a crutch the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground.

I remember when I had finally regained my senses, I led him to meet the son he had never met. Shaun we had named him, after Nate's father. Shaun lay now in the bassinet the Rosa's had so generously given me, cooing gently at the mobile spinning gently above him. Enthralled with the sky, just like his daddy had been.

But my dear husband frowned at the sight of everything I had bought for our son, little toy airplanes and zeppelins, rocketships and tiny aviator cap. I had chosen them to remind him of his daddy should he have not returned, as Mr. Rosa had not. But here was Mr. Donnelly now, staring at everything that reminded him of war. Of himself, maybe.

After seeing Shaun or seeing me or seeing himself or something horrible festering in his mind, he suddenly tore off of the mobile of little airplanes and zeppelins and threw it crashing through a window. Like some sort of rabid animal his nostrils flared, expelling hot dragon's breath, his eyes wild. That horrible, unfamiliar gaze turned to our son. He threw away his crutch and grasped the railing of the bassinet, the wood snapping like twigs in his grip. His knuckles were white with, with something.

But Shaun gurgled and laughed as he always did at new faces, innocently oblivious to the stranger lingering over his cradle.

Oh, god. Oh, god oh god oh god.

Some primal maternal instinct screamed at me at grab Shaun and run. Every fiber of me surrendered to this instinct and I shoved my husband to the ground, shielding our son from his indiscriminate rage. He scrambled to get up, but with only one leg he flails like a turtle on his back. It felt like an eternity, watching him struggle helplessly on the ground. I do not move. I cannot move.

Protect Shaun. I had to protect Shaun.

Finally, he stopped. He laid upon the ground splayed out like a corpse, staring up with empty eyes at the ceiling. The silence was heavy, crushing. It was broken only by the footsteps of the fleeing Rosa boy, likely having run off to go get help or simply to get away from my husband's violent episode. I didn't bother watching him leave. I am rooted, unmoving, unyielding. Single-minded.

Protect Shaun. Even from his own father.

I watched those empty eyes for any sign of further danger, but I saw then that there now was none. There was nothing in those eyes anymore. Alaska had done something to him, something horrible. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his breathing easing as he slowly came to reality. A minute passed. Ten. A million, perhaps.

A tear falls from those empty eyes. His mouth opened and from it came a voice as broken and hollow as the rest of him was.

How the fuck can I be a father like, like this? They ruined me. They ruined me! He shouts it again and again, beating his fists against his head in his grief. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Rosa boy back at the doorway, some of the neighbors in tow. No one moved or spoke. They could not. But I did not care, I did not really see them. I was transfixed by the sight of my wailing husband. As Shaun began to cry, even that was something distant and far away.

I felt myself drop to my knees and gather up the thing that was once my husband into my arms, embracing him tightly. Oh, god. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I said to him, holding him tight as he sobbed into my arms like a child, I'm sorry, honey.

The cries of my broken household linger in my mind. Echoing.

But then the rumbling of the great airship's mighty engines drown them out.

A mercy.

I swallow my fear and my doubt. The old me is dead, I must leave her dead in the ground with Nate. I must be strong on my own now. For Shaun.

The vertibird lurches into its home in the Prydwen's hanger and the Paladin leaps from it onto the deck easily. I am not who my husband had been, I do not jump out of planes. I am no fearless warrior. I stand at the edge and do not move. I cannot move. The Paladin reaches out a hand to me, like some prince out a fairy tale to a delicate damsel.

Ridiculous.

I jump down on my own, my entire body reeling from the vertigo, but I remain steady. He shoots me another of those weird smiles of his and turns away, walking up the flight deck. I follow, trying to walk straight and not look down.

Permission to come aboard, Captain.

An imposing man in black returns the salute. Permission granted, Paladin. But who is this with you?

New recruit, Captain, wastelander. Would make for an excellent field Scribe.

Wastelanders are no longer accepted into our ranks, Paladin. That is, unless she--

\-- is a scientist, yes. Yes, she is a scientist. Very technologically advanced science. She's a scientist, nuclear specifically, correct? He turns to me and raises his brow high, desperate for a response. Baffled by everything and struggling to keep myself standing properly, I manage a nod. This satisfies the Paladin and he is quick to praise me for my work in securing the deep range transmitter. He vouches personally for my value as a potentially full-fledged member of the Brotherhood. The Captain is apparently impressed though still quite suspicious. He renders a dismissing salute to the Paladin, who soon vanishes into the depths of the airship.

The captain does not do the same for me. I walk quickly by him, only to have him grab me by the shoulder. My wounds, barely healed, throb dangerously at his touch. I stifle a yelp as his fingers bite into me almost as much as his words. He trusts the Paladin, but he doesn't trust me. He will walk me personally to the Elder, where he will judge me. Whether I'm truly Brotherhood material. Which, he is quite sure, I am not.

The walk along the flight deck feels long and arduous, the threat of falling all around me. I cannot believe I once thought flight romantic, believed Nate about that silly freedom high up in the air. I am more terrified than I have ever been in my life. I think of Shaun. Be strong, I say, be strong. You have to be. But no amount of strength can save someone from a fall from this height, floating high in the sky on a lead balloon.

Lord preserve me.

The captain, however, has no patience for my fears. I am herded up a set of stairs and through a bulkhead into the keel of the airship. Knights in massive armor and what I assume are scribes walk about, each on their own mission, bustling up and down the ladders effortlessly and efficiently. Military. Like a beehive, bustling and chaotic yet single-mindedly efficient. Busy little bees in metal plate run up and down stairs and ladders laden with papers or junk or weapons, somehow managing not to run into each other.

I am pushed quite forcefully into a frontal observation room, nearly running into a large man in an orange flightsuit and prewar combat armor. I quickly apologize and straighten myself, looking around. I am the focus of attention for a moment or two before their attention turns to someone else entirely.

A massive man walks into the room. The shape of his muscles bulges upon his impressive silhouette despite the large coat he wore. He gait is wide and confident, his very being emanating the unmistakable aura of command. His intimidating presence demanded silence and respect. I had felt a similar sort of dangerous aura around Tony, whenever the Family was coerced into attending one of his wife's dreadful holiday parties. We enjoyed ourselves not for her sake, but for our own. Like the prewar don and the good Mayor of Goodneighbor, he is a not a man to be crossed. I am careful to render a similar respect, and assume parade rest with the crowd around me.

He turns and his steel grey eyes meet mine. He is surprisingly young, despite the scars and the unkempt beard hiding whatever baby fat still lingered on his bones. I wonder who this man is, and where the Elder was. Was this his son, or perhaps a protege?

For a moment the young man's brow raises in surprise, likely at my stark blue vaultsuit and wild matted hair, but other than that small gesture he does not further acknowledge my presence.

He begins to speak. His ability of command is not limited only to the respect of those around him, it would seem, but also of the spoken word. His speech is stirring and inspiring, calling for the destruction of both Institute and Synth, for the unquestioning loyalty of the Brotherhood in the war to come. I feel my own heartbeat quicken at his words, and find myself somewhat agreeing with them. Once Shaun was safe, hell, I would gladly be the one to blow up the Institute, Synths and all.  
The young man meets my eyes again as he concludes his speech.

\-- But in the end, we must save humanity from its worst enemy... itself. Ad victoriam!

The soldiers around me call the Latin out with pride, and though a bit delayed I follow suit. The room clears, and the young man turns away from the crowd to look out at distant Boston. Slowly I step up to him. My hands, clumsy from the vertigo, reach out to a nearby railing in an attempt to steady myself. I linger after I have found stability and look around for whatever leader I had been directed to. It was certainly not this young man, this... this boy. However imposing and impressive he may be. Likely a young officer, or perhaps the son of a general. But the room is clear and none remain but him and I.

I care about them, you know. He says quietly as I approach, his eyes still locked upon the ruins of Boston, The people of the Commonwealth.

Silence.

Evidently, he expects an answer.

Well, I reply after a moment of thought, I would certainly hope so.

He looks at me then, taken aback by my answer. Or because, perhaps, of how I had answered him. He clears his throat and continues. I refuse to allow the mistakes of the past to be repeated.  
Silence. He waits.

An, ah, I breathe deeply, and finally the nausea subsides. An admirable goal. Mistakes were certainly made.

A tense quiet once more reigns, and I feel myself shifting uncomfortably on my feet. This young man must be waiting for the Elder too, and was trying to make small talk to pass the time. I clasp my hands behind me and we look off to the skyline, content in the silence.

From up here in the sky, the ruins of Boston look so small. So insignificant. Far off I see the lights of Diamond City shining brightly even in the day and I think of the little bird Piper, off chasing trouble and pecking away at the patience of its Mayor. I think of Nick -- the synth, my friend, no -- the synth detective. The young man's words comes to mind, of synths.

Abominations, he had called them.

I touch a hand to my wounded shoulder, the vault suit stained an ugly brown from grime and dirt and blood. I am suddenly aware of how I look, my once carefully curled hair windblown and wild despite my efforts to tame it, my face smeared with dirt and my glasses irreparably cracked. I am a skeleton stuffed into a vault suit, which is torn and stitched back together in odd places. Scavver, the captain had called me. Well, I certainly look the part.

I feel self-conscious, and quickly comb my fingers through my wild curls. When I finally met the Elder, I would have to make the best possible impression. I had to. From the corner of my eye I see the young man cast another glance at me for a moment before returning his gaze to the Commonwealth far below.

Elder Maxson. Paladin Danse, reporting.

Both I and the young man turn to see the Paladin, now out of his power armor and staring. At us. It takes a moment for him to regain his bearings before standing tall at attention. He slowly rendering a respectful salute.

The young man turns his gaze from me to the Paladin, and easily returns it. He steps from my side back to his place at the center of the room, his broad back to me. I feel suddenly small in his shadow, the knowledge of his being Elder heavy upon me. I had spoken to him so glibly, so casually.

Ah, Danse. His voice is friendly and welcoming, though still possesses the same stern solemnity he had had in his fiery speech just minutes before. I've read your reports. Exemplary work in securing Cambridge and the Commonwealth for the Brotherhood, Paladin. However, you must understand that one aspect of your report is troubling.

The Elder clasps his hands behind his back and continues, his voice grave. You've been gone for some time. I understand. But the Codex does not allow for wastelanders to join the ranks of the Brotherhood. This is non-negotiable.

The Paladin straightens his back. He is tall even without the power armor, and much larger and older than the Elder before him. Yet it is not intimidation or defiance he shows in his stance, but remarkable respect and even reverence. Elder, I believe that this wastelander would be a valuable asset to our operations in the Commonwealth. She is a scientist, a nuclear engineer. She was instrumental in retrieving valuable technology from ArcJet systems, and aided my team extensively in other instances of artifact recovery and supply runs.

The Elder raises a brow, intrigued. He remains with his back turned to me as he speaks. As a wastelander, I am nothing, I am not there. I do not exist.

As I have read in your reports, Paladin. Her service and generosity to your team is commendable and nothing short of admirable. Nonetheless, the Codex states: Shield yourself from those not bound to you by steel, for they are blind. Aid them when you can, but lose not sight of yourself. We must uphold the word of the Codex. She is not Steel, she is not one of us. Nor will she ever be.

I feel myself wringing my hands to keep myself from hitting something. Or someone. Maybe the college-aged asshole in front of me.

After all I have done, still I am denied? I look to the Paladin, to his promise, but find only a resolute stare at this young Elder Maxson. He does not move and does not question his master. I did not come all this way to be denied my one chance at finding my son. I step out of the Elder's shadow and move to the Paladin's side. Both stare at my boldness. I had not been given leave to move, let alone speak.

Well I say fuck that.

Excuse me, Elder, sir. I say loudly, struggling to rein in my growing anger. Don't I have a say?

The Elder's nostrils flare at my impudence, but after a moment, he humors me with a half-hearted gesture. Go on, says the lazy wave of a gloved hand.

If I cannot join the Brotherhood as you say, I was still promised, at the very least, recompense for my services by the Paladin. For risking my own life in Cambridge to protect him and his men, as well as for the incident in ArcJet. Where we fought off an army of synths, I might add. I straighten my glasses, channeling the woman I had been so long ago. I am in court, arguing my case. And I cannot lose. I continue. For this service I gave your Paladin, Elder, I was given the trust of this man as well as his steel. Righteous Authority, a valuable asset of his personal arsenal. What such a significant gift must symbolize, I am sure you know.

I remove Righteous Authority from the holster upon my back and offer the weapon to the Elder. His eyes linger upon the winged sword upon the stock, unmistakably Brotherhood. He takes it in his hands and looks it over, glancing at the various modifications I had built upon it and testing the weight. After a moment, he nods his approval and hands the weapon back to me. I take the mighty weapon and return it to my back. It has become a familiar weight, a trusted friend in the weeks spent in the Commonwealth. I continue.

Though I am not of your order, I wish to aid it in its mission. Our goals are one and the same, Elder. I wish to find the Institute and -- I pause. MacCready's words echo, a warning. I banish them from my mind. -- find what has been taken from me. My son.  
The Elder blinks back his surprise and the Paladin beside me tenses. Son. The word is powerful here in the Wasteland it would seem. I use their surprise to my advantage.

He was just a baby. Just a few months old when the bombs fell. He was stolen from me, taken after my husband was murdered, while I was trapped in cryostasis. I tracked down the man who did it and in doing so uncovered valuable information on the location of an escaped Institute scientist. I might be willing to part with this information and give my assistance to your cause, on the condition you help me find my son.

The Elder looks at me for a long moment, his steely eyes narrowing. His mouth slowly turns into a fearsome scowl.

You expect me to believe such outrageous lies? Not only did you, some filthy waif from who knows where, track down and kill an agent of the Institute, but you were alive before the war? Do you take me for an idiot? Is this some kind of elaborate joke? Is this son even real? Paladin, how dare you waste my time with this. Get this woman out of my sight.

I have not come all this way for being insulted. Nor did I come all this way for failure. Not again. I step forward, glaring up at the man who calls himself Elder. I will not be denied the chance to rescue my boy. He steps back, surprised at my refusal to obey.

The Paladin grabs my arm, but I shake it off. I step again. I speak again, clearly and defiantly.

Then, Elder. I spit out the word like poison. Pray tell. What evidence do I need to prove myself?

The Elder glares right back down at me. He rolls his shoulders, showcasing his immense muscles. He could snap me in half he wanted to. There are a thousand ways he could kill or hurt me in an instant. But I do not back down. I cannot back down. I have nowhere else to turn. But he does not need to know that. I let him know only the wrath of a very angry Italian mother.

But I am yanked back, my arm pinned painfully to the small of my back. The Paladin is restraining me. I look back at him. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his eyes scream, why? I can see that he is trying to help me, in his own way. Anger won't solve anything here. I need to win this man over, those eyes say.

So I end up saying nothing, forced to swallow the bitter pill of my seething rage, and return my furious gaze right back at the Elder. Now that I am out of his face, he clears his throat and straightens his coat.  
Danse, you vouched for this, this woman?

Yes, says the Paladin, his grip upon me relaxing ever so slightly, Yes, I still do. Despite the... misunderstanding here.

She speaks the truth. She is as she says, Arthur.

Arthur. Like the king. I look now to the Elder, to his stern and stony countenance and his thinly veiled fury, and wonder if the Arthur of old was anything like this one. I remember reading the legends in school, of a great king to unify the land, of a retinue of knights and wizards and ladies of the court. I had found it all exciting, and I remember Matty and I as children acting the part of Arthur and Guinevere, fighting off dragons and staving off great dangers for the good of the realm. I have fond memories of the Arthur of legend.

This one I have no such feelings for. I glare at him. He is no King, though he certainly acts like one.

The Elder ponders the Paladin's words, and me, for several moments. He looks then to me, a brow cocked inquisitively. Intrigued. He motions for Danse to release me.

Well, Recruit. Tell me. What is your name?

I give him the name that has become my name. Sol.

Sol? What kind of name is that?

Mine.

Hrmph. So be it. Sol what?

Just Sol.

Well, Just Sol. You have given us valuable information, and have sworn your intention to aid us. However, your honesty or lack thereof is yet an unknown. We shall be the judges of that.

He turns to the Paladin, his expression stern and unyielding.

Paladin. Take her to Knight-Captain Cade for a full medical examination. If she's telling the truth, and she is a vault dweller from before the war, she'll be healthier than anyone we've ever seen. Proctors Quinlan and Ingram will judge her technical aptitude. If she is indeed what she says she is, we'll welcome her with open arms. She will belong to the Brotherhood. If not, well. Throw her off the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we've arrived at the Prydwen! Ah, I write too many words. Anyway. I have the next few chapters already written and currently being proofread. I'll continue trying to update on a regular basis. This fic has been a joy to write and is a pleasant way for me to jump back into the world of writing. It's been a while.
> 
> Please let me know in the comments what you think of the story, I haven't written in a while! Advice, comments, and critique is always appreciated!
> 
> For my inspiration, artwork for IH2BU and more writing visit my tumblr at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/


	6. Chapter 6

After a few weeks of being aboard the Prydwen, I almost wish I had been thrown off of her.

I sit now in Proctor Quinlan's office, looking over the thirteenth schematic for a tea diffuser or some sort of blueprint for a highly specialized factory machine for combine assembly. It doesn't matter much, really. If it looks technical or has numbers on it, the knights grab it and send it on up. It's all largely useless, but its my job now to sort through the junk for something worthwhile. Or a way to make it worthwhile. 

I had made a mistake in the admission that I was a patent lawyer. Someone well versed in the intricacies of prewar tech and nuclear science. Now I sift through file after file of misidentified so-called artifacts, sorting and filing and refiling as I identified the lost technology of a world long gone. 

The work is beyond dull.

I shift in my chair and readjust my scribe's uniform.   
It's not mine, it is the Brotherhood's, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. Well, I wouldn't want it to be mine anyway. The Quartermaster had been quick enough to tell me that it wasn't when he had issued it to me. He had not cared when I informed him

that it was ill-fitting and awkward to wear, and simply told me that it was good enough for a wastelander and to deal with it. 

I had altered it as best I could, but there is only so much one can do on a strict military schedule. I let out a sigh and rub a gloved thumb against a smudge on the large reading lens mounted upon my chest and keep reading.

Combines. 

Farms. 

The Commonwealth is woefully devoid of farms. What farms Preston and I had stumbled upon were not only tiny, but constantly under bombardment by Raiders and gunners and all manner of threat. I wonder absently after Preston and his Minutemen, of Sanctuary. How were Sturges and the Longs doing? Mama Murphy? Codsworth? 

Had the Rosa boy in his Halloween costume reappeared, or had that simply been another product of the many dings to the old chronometer? I had informed Preston to watch out for young Luis, who I assumed now must be a ghoul, and welcome him back home. Red hair and blue eyes, I had told him, with a bad attitude and a good heart. The delinquent I had been hired to watch while Nate was away. I had lingered perhaps too long in Sanctuary for this boy, this last tiny lifeline to a world long gone, though Preston had been grateful enough for my presence. Sanctuary was self-sustaining now, and those who now lived there had become irreplaceable friends.

Were the crops we had planted enough? The turrets Sturges and I had built, had they staved off the dangers of the Commonwealth? Surely Sanctuary was far enough away from anything of value, they would fine. Surely the turrets wouldn't even be needed.

Surely my friends were still alive.

And the Paladin. Just days after I had been successfully probed and prodded and proven that, yes, I was who I said I was, he was sent off on some secret mission with Scribe Haylen and a small squad of veteran Knights. Where he went or how long he would be gone no one really knew. I had watched him leave from the flight deck, watched his departure until the vertibird had vanished into the horizon. 

Knight Rhys had remained on the Prydwen, even more bitter and biting now that I, an outsider, had been somehow admitted into the Brotherhood that he had been born into. His stance on my newfound privilege was clear. I do not share their blood, I have stolen their steel. I am not their sister. Upon recovering from his wounds and was released from sickbay he, like many others, ensured that I remember this fact. That it be ingrained in my very identity. I would never be them, despite the Paladin and Haylen's support and friendship. Or, perhaps, because of it.

I think of the Paladin now, standing tall in his shining armor as he fights off wave after wave of enemies. Mindless ferals, perhaps. I see him as I saw him in Cambridge, nearly overrun but standing tall and brave nonetheless. In our short time together we had earned each other's respect, or at least I would like to think so. Perhaps, as time went on, we could become true friends. He was a good and honorable man, if a bit too on the straight and narrow for my liking. So serious, always. But then I think of his smile, a bit lopsided and dimpled on the right side. From the first time I saw it I knew he wasn't used to smiling. It was awkward and strange on such a stoic man. It is a good look on him, despite how strange I found it. I miss seeing him, that goofy smile of his.

Daydreaming, are we?

I look up from the paper I forgot existed to see the Proctor standing in the doorway. He frowns at me, his cat Emmett curled up in his arms like the pet of some B-movie supervillain. I scramble to attention.

Ugh. As you were, intiate, he says with a roll in his eyes, plopping the cat onto a nearby desk before working his way over to me. Have you finished looking over the documents for today?

I let out a sigh and hand him my notes, the margins nearly black with doodles and drawings, but finished. More than finished. With my training and experience I am faster than any of the other research scribes. He knows this, and with each day assigns me a larger and larger stack of documentation. Always not good enough, scavver, not good enough. I am not them, and at each and every opportunity they make sure to remind me. He flips through my notes with a harrumph before finally pointing out one of the entries.

This is a vital component for Brotherhood laser rifle assembly. We are not removing it from our schematics, initiate.

But it's releasing a dangerous burst of radiation with every round fired, sir. That ozone smell? I think it will be much safer for the soldiers if we replace it with a--

\-- it may not be so in the wasteland, initiate, but here in the Brotherhood, words mean things. We're not going to change something that has worked well for years solely upon some scavver's hypothesis. Quinlan tosses the notes onto my desk. I let out a sigh and gather up the papers. He motions me to leave them be. He speaks in his usual monotonous drone, dripping with pretentious disgust as he addresses me. 

Well then, initiate. I have been tasked by the Elder with entering you into the Scrolls and educating you on them. I don't understand why it is I that must do it, for as the head of research division I have much more important things to do. Some other scribe could just as easily...

I want to roll my eyes. Instead I give him a small nod as he speaks. Yes, Proctor Quinlan. No, Proctor Quinlan. I will not ask questions, Proctor Quinlan. Of course, Proctor Quinlan. You want me to jump, Proctor Quinlan, okay, how high? I am a robot for my horrible overlord. This robot, luckily, does not incur his wrath or worse yet, prolong his droning monotone. After he is finished verbally beating me into the dirt, reassuring me know that I am no better than it, I follow him to his desk and sit beside him at his terminal. 

He pulls up a massive list of personnel entries. Maxson, Lyons, Danse -- countless names and countless entries. Rank, Date of Birth, Status, Date and Manner of Death, commendations. A selected entry, a small list of their accomplishments and deeds while in service. He inputs a code and a prompt for a new entry appears.

Name: Sol Scavver. I protest, but with a devilish smirk and a quick keystroke, Quinlan has already confirmed it. He tells me that once data is input, it can't be changed back. Besides, a family name is required to complete the entry, and this one is fitting.

Juvenile, this man.

A code is generated upon the screen after my name is entered. SS-1623. I guess that is the name that is not my name now. SS-1623. Sol Scavver. He moves on.

Gender: Female (F/I?). He selects F, which I'm not sure what it means. Probably some other asinine inside joke I'm no part of but the punchline. As he continues to input my information, I feel my mind begin to wander once more. 

He is done with everything for my entry rather quickly, and we move on to an explanation of the Scrolls and a run through of the entries, from recruits to elders and the first Maxson to the current. Apparently they are venerated as the single greatest family in the Brotherhood, which had secured a role of leadership for young Arthur since his very conception. The Scrolls also state his deeds, killing his first super mutant as a Squire at the age of ten. Killing a deathclaw and earning his scar at thirteen. It is certainly an impressive record as a warrior, and would explain the brotherhood's unquestioning loyalty to their leader. He shows me his own entry, several others, and my own insulting one. Ugh.

He skips over two recent entries listed as Elder: Lyons, O. and Lyons, S. I point them out to him. Surely, a mistake. He rolls his eyes and resignedly expands Lyons, O., explaining to me the apparently disastrous consequences of his leadership in the Capital Wasteland, where their chapter is currently based out of. He nearly laughs at my shock at the retinue on the Prydwen not being the full force. No, he says with a grin, the Brotherhood is far greater than anything here in the Commonwealth, that is for sure. No thanks to Lyons. He quickly exits the entry and moves to Lyons, S. which consists of only two paltry lines.

Lyons, Sarah. Elder. Daughter of Lyons, Owyn and former Sentinel of Lyons' Pride.

Died in battle, 2283.

... That's it?

But once more Quinlan has already moved on, simply stating that I had promised not to ask questions. It is not my place. So I sit and listen to him talk and talk and talk. About the rank system, about how I should live my life, about the bowel movements of his finicky cat. 

Well, he might as well have been, for how much I was listening. 

I know already that the Scrolls are the most important documents in the Brotherhood second only to the Codex, which I have been forced to study and memorize in my free time. What free time I have is limited. From dawn til dusk I toil away in this tiny office, reading and filing junk into smaller categories of junk, only to have some other scribe or the Proctor tell me I'm wrong and shuffle all my work around again. The thing is not what you say it is, but a piece repurposed into a component for some other thing. Get it right, scavver. And with all the documents that flowed in constantly from patrols, it is truly a Sisyphean task. And it is quickly driving me mad.

I am grateful when the chow hall bell rings. With a grumble Quinlan waves his hand, dismissing me. Lower ranks eat first, get the food nice and hot. I had missed hot meals, and even MacCready's quick roach roast paled in comparison to the ability to properly cook food aboard the Prydwen. Several scribes and aspirants are already ahead of me, waiting with trays ready and waiting to be filled. I grab my own and stand beside them. They talk amongst themselves, throwing the occasional wayward glance over to Sol Scavver, the strange prewar relic from the wasteland, and are careful to keep their distance. I am an unknown to them, an outsider. I am and will always be a threat to their misty island of Brotherhood.

But I do not care. Or, at least, I tell myself that. I move my tray forward, receive a large glop of Blamco, some roasted tato, and a carton of Aqua Pura. Whispers too loud for secrecy reach my ears, but I don't care. As the Brotherhood uses me, I am using the Brotherhood -- a means to an end. If I find and rescue Shaun from the claws of the Institute, none of this matters. I sit at a table and quietly arrange my tray and utensils. It is nice and spacious, as no one will sit at my table. The silver lining from being a pariah.

After the placement of my meal and utensils is satisfactory, I bow my head and I begin to pray. It was, perhaps, a habit from the old world drilled in me since birth from my staunch Catholic parents. I did it even after I married a Protestant. But in truth it is comforting, in a way, to pray. Even though God had long ago abandoned this world. Hell is empty and far below my lofty perch aboard this lead balloon I know its demons linger there. Ghouls, raiders, Gunners, synths. The Institute. But despite this, a short prayer, a small thanks for the small blessings I have been given, like the Prydwen's hot showers and food and the promise of safety, is soothing. I can forget the world's demons for a short time, as well as my own.

I feel eyes upon me, wide and staring as they watch me perform this ancient and archaic ritual, but I do not care. I hear the harsh scraping of chairs against the metal floor and the scurry of feet and chatter as soldiers sat down for their meal. It is white noise, and it is effective in keeping my mind from wandering. From thinking about how each and every day I'm stuck on this blasted balloon, Shaun gets further and further away. Another day older. Another detail of his beautiful face missing from my memory.   
Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, please show me the way. Give me strength. 

Amen.

I finish my prayer and open my eyes to find the Paladin, unarmored, sitting across from me, his own tray a heaping pile of Blamco and soggy tatos. I blink. Surely I'm seeing things, right? I blink again. No, he is most certainly there. 

He speaks. 

Do you mind if I sit here? 

I go to stand at attention, but succeed in only bashing my knees against the underside of the table. I render a salute, half standing due to my now smarting needs. Idiot, I think to myself, and know the others around me think it as well.

But the Paladin merely chuckles and motions at me to sit back down. You don't have to salute at chow, but I appreciate the gesture. As you were, soldier.

I sit back down, my face probably as red as my tatos. After a moment of pushing them around with my fork, I look back up at the Paladin. I speak quietly. Don't get me wrong, Paladin. I'm glad to see you back again. But weren't you on a recovery mission? For Paladin Brandis? 

The Paladin eats leisurely, as an officer he does not share the time constraints of the junior members of the Brotherhood. That does not, however, prevent him from speaking through mouthfuls of food. You've been doing your homework, soldier. That mission happens to be classified information.

I find myself smiling at him. Straight-laced and the very image of the perfect soldier, but the Paladin still has horrendous table manners. It's endearing, almost. I hand him a kerchief and simply tell him that I must have overheard someone. I do not tell him that people talk quite easily about things they believe others may not know anything about. My identity here is a wasteland scientist ignorant to militarized organizations. They do not know of my life with the mob or of my disgruntled soldier husband. They cannot grasp the idea that learning things I am not supposed to know is second nature to me.

So instead I play dumb, giving him a coy shrug and a small smile that says, Sorry!

The Paladin laughs a bit at that. We chat easily over our meal, telling one another of the weeks we had spent apart: his tale infinitely more interesting and exciting than my own adventures through mountains of paperwork. He doesn't give exact details, but I find myself lost in his story, of glorious combat against super mutants and ghouls and finally succeeding in his mission. He tells me that when Brandis finally returns to the Prydwen, he won't be the only Paladin I'll be pestering anymore.

You don't like my pestering? I laugh lightly over my carton of aqua pura, my eyes lingering on the man before me. Exhaustion lines his face and from the bandages peeking out from the edges of his uniform, the mission had taken quite a toll on him. The mere lifting of a fork seems to be a herculean task for him, and his rigid posture is failing. With a sigh he places his fork beside his meal and returns his attention back to the conversation.

I actually quite missed it, after being out so long in the Commonwealth. It's refreshing to be back on the Prydwen, with my brothers and sisters. Among... friends. But, anyway. How has life in the Brotherhood treated you, soldier?

I hate it here, I want to say. I fight the urge to ask if he's found any leads on ways to survive the Glowing Sea. I can't badmouth the order I now belong to, lest I actually do get thrown off the Prydwen. As much as I hate my new life in the Brotherhood, with their numbers and technology they're my best shot at Shaun. I must hold my tongue and do as I am told here. I must remain professional. Disrespecting the chain of command, I remember Nate telling me in his letters, was strictly forbidden in the military. Disrespect... fraternization.

The Paladin may have, if indirectly, named me a friend -- but he is careful with his words. He keeps a safe and clinical distance from me in his speech. I am a soldier, he reminds me with every sentence, soldier. Brother and sister at arms, nothing more. Professionalism to the letter, this man. I must, however much it may pain me, emulate it. I am a robot.

Good. I am good, sir. I am treated well.

He is silent for a long moment. 

As I'm sure you've already learned in your diligent studies of our Codex, soldier, it is a punishable offense to lie to a superior officer. As a Paladin, I am most certainly senior to an initiate.

A bell rings. The clatter of chairs and trays resounds through the small chow hall as junior soldiers rise and go off about their days. Chow time has ended. I move to stand, but the Paladin jabs a finger at me to sit myself back down in my chair. 

As an intiate, I say perhaps a bit too glibly to him, I have to get back to work, sir.

And as your senior officer, I order you to sit back down and keep me company while I enjoy the first good meal I've had in weeks. He gestures once more for me to sit down and continues, Unless you'd rather disobey a direct order.

Sir, I say with a small smile, trying my best not to downplay my genuine relief and gratitude at this ridiculous order, isn't this something an abuse of power? I do have important work to do.

He shrugs, a strange gesture of apathy from the Paladin. There are other scribes, soldier. Let them take care of it. So. Care to tell me how things really are?

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I do not want to answer, I cannot afford to risk allowing someone to hear me voice my displeasure. The Paladin may be the closest thing I have to a friend here but even he is still one of them. Brotherhood. I may wear their clothes, I may do their work, but I am not them. Even Danse is different, something strange and unfamiliar.

Sol. 

The Paladin has not said the name that has become my name since Cambridge. After I saved his life and he saved mine. There is a friendliness in his voice I have not heard in some time -- and my heart lurches in my chest. Say it again, my heart says, say my name again. Please let me be something other than Scavver. Let me be me here, if for a moment. Let us be friends. Dear God, do I ever need a friend here in this den of lions. His eyes soften, and that small smile returns to his face. That dimple. Oh.

He reaches out and places a hand on my clenched fist. His fingers are large and rough upon my own, covered in callouses and scars and stubborn dirt and grime. They tell a story I don't know the words to, these hands. Battles fought and battles lost, a life of hardship and pain I can't even begin to fathom. What do my own hands feel like under his? What story do they tell? Does he feel that same impossible rush of warmth, that intoxicating sensation of touch, that we have all been starved from for so long? I find myself speaking.

It's lonely here. I'm no one here. Well, at least no one worth anyone's time, anyway.

His hand grasps mine a little tighter. I know the feeling, he says after a moment of quiet thought, more than you know. 

But it does improve. Prove yourself to those above you and to those around you. You have the potential to become a vital and irreplaceable member of the Brotherhood. I've seen that and I've told the Elder as much. But I can't be your only advocate. Be your own. Show them that you're worth it.

Empty words, empty platitudes. What does he know of my pain here? Of sitting here on my laurels taunted at every turn, each day an eternity? How can he possible know the pain of forgetting the faces of everyone you had ever loved? My mouth draws into a thin line as I try to hold back the flood of anger and rage I've kept inside me for weeks. Weeks of yes, sir and no, sir, and holding back all the where the everliving fuck is my son, sirs threaten to pour out and wash what little pleasantness the company of the Paladin had provided me. My fist clenches tighter, knuckles white.

I apologize I've... I've never been good at these things. Let me start over, at the beginning. He withdraws his hand and lets out a sigh before continuing. He tells me of a lonely childhood, picking through garbage and scrap to make a living. Of a place called Rivet City, where he met someone, a young man named Cutler, and ran a junk stand together. His smile wavers at the memory of Cutler, and after a moment he continues. When the Brotherhood ran through on a recruiting run, they were allowed in and were given a new life. He had worked hard to repay the favor ever since and had become the best soldier he could be. He wasn't treated well at the beginning, being some street urchin turned soldier, but with hard work he and Cutler managed to rise through the ranks and even impress Elder Lyons. They were made Knights. Cutler, a nobody scavver from Rivet City, earned a place in Lyons Pride, an elite squad of shock troops led by the Elder Lyons herself.

Lyons, Sarah. Elder Daughter of Lyons, Owyn and former Sentinel of Lyons' Pride. 

Died in battle, 2283.

What had happened to Sarah and the rest of Lyons' Pride? To this Cutler? What had happened to make the Brotherhood so hostile to wastelanders when they had once gone out of their way to recruit them?

The Paladin is silent for a long moment, his eyes someplace far away. I see Nate again in him, I know that pain all too well. Singer's dead, my Nate says again and again, Singer's dead. But instead these cool brown eyes sing out a different name: Cutler. He had shared the former Elder's fate, undoubtedly. I look away from him. I will not ogle him in his quiet moment of grief. There was something more to his grief than the loss of a friend, however. Those eyes are like my own, after I stumbled from the vault into this brave new world. As realization of my husband's death washed over me. My eyes are his, and it is then I know that Cutler was not just a friend to the Paladin.

Moments turn to quiet minutes. I finish my meal, respectful of his privacy, as he pokes at his with his fork.

He clears his throat, and with a renewed vigor shovels a forkful of cold Blamco into his mouth. Again, in his usual lack of table manners, he speaks through a mouthful of food. 

So, Sol, now that you know who I really am -- he swallows -- trust me when I say that while Elder Lyons might not be here anymore, Elder Maxson is a good man. A smart man. He does keep to the Codex strictly, as we all should, but he is not without understanding. He has seen your worth to us and has accepted you into our ranks. Now all you have to do is work your way up, prove to your brothers and sisters that you do indeed deserve to be here. Establish yourself. It's hard, I know, but it's not impossible. Wear the name Scavver like armor, and they can't hurt you with it anymore. They'll respect it, as I do.

... Thank you, sir.

Don't you sir me, Sol, says the Paladin with a smile as he finishes off his Blamco, I do have a name like any other human being, in case you've forgotten.

Professionalism, si-- Paladin. Fraternization being forbidden and all.

He nods thoughtfully and stands, taking his emptied tray and mine back to the mess sergeant. Indeed it is, soldier. I see you've already taken my words to heart. Continue being the best soldier you can be, and you'll go far. But, it's getting late. Shall I walk you back to your bunk?

I do still have work to do, Paladin, for Proctor Quinlan --

\-- which other scribes are perfectly capable of doing. You need your rest tonight anyway. Scribe Haylen has agreed to be your sponsor in the coming months, and will be responsible for your training for our expedition into the Glowing Sea. Yes, soldier, pick that jaw off the ground before someone steps on it. We've recently recovered a prewar polymer from a lab in Cambridge that will allow us to enter the Glowing Sea at a far lesser risk. As our resident expert on nuclear technology, you'll be aiding Proctor Ingram and her scribes in reverse engineering and reproducing this polymer for application to our power armor, and conducting field training with Haylen in whatever free time you will have.  
Field training, Paladin? Does that mean...?

Of course, soldier. I want you on my team for this one. You're the one that gave us the information about this Virgil, it's only right that you be the one to help us find him.

He smiles at me, and at that moment his smile is the most beautiful and welcome thing in the world to me. I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder. He is my rock in this raging sea, and I don't want to let him go. He laughs and pats me on the back.

So much for fraternization, hm?

Thank you... Danse.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do I do in my freetime? Why, I write. Is that all I do in my freetime? Kind of.
> 
> The song I listened to most while writing this was Dion's "Tonight, Tonight".
> 
> Enjoy!

Progress on the piezonucleic power armor and Senior Scribe Neriah's mutagen serum is slow. Molasses in winter slow. But working on something other than endless documentation is truly a blessing. Better yet, it is towards something that will bring me one step closer to bringing Shaun home. And so, in the weeks that followed the Paladin's announcement, I worked tirelessly with the scribes in development of the polymer using whatever junk and scrap we could find. We performed trial after trial week after week with no success, though my dedication and diligence had begun to win over the respect of my new brothers and sisters at arms. I had contributed all I could, and eventually the team was able to synthesize and manufacture various materials and tests without my aid. But still I toiled, knowing that everything hinged upon the success of these projects.

Eventually, progress plateaued.

It was not long after this that lost all hope we could get it to work without proper prewar lab equipment. Test after test resulted in failure, either degrading moments after application or even eating through the metal of valuable power armor. Our jury-rigged chemicals and equipment just weren't enough, and would likely never be enough.

So instead, I had thrown everything into my field training, ridiculous and limited as it was. As Initiate Scavver, I was still restricted to the Prydwen. When that restriction ended, no one quite knew. Or, at least, no one would tell me. I became quite agitated and stir-crazy, and even Haylen had gotten concerned.

I had nearly considered throwing my work off the Prydwen in my frustration until the Paladin had returned from patrol with a gigantic, bloody ball of some kind of meat and feathers. A gift for me he had called it, oddly enough.

Haylen told me about this... prewar tradition. Said you missed it. It's not a turkey or a fruitcake, but will it do?

And ever since, instead of funneling my frustration-fueled zeal into an project that was going nowhere, I was given leave to prepare for a prewar holiday celebration. Christmas. Hanukkah. All of them.

After finding a way to store what had to be some kind of large mutant bird, I had thrown myself into decking the stark halls of the Prydwen with whatever I could find. My furious efforts at preparing for this antiquated celebration had baffled many, yet had enthralled some. I had even won over the help of a handful: Scribe Haylen, Initiates Clarke and Lucia who would soon be transferred to logistics, a lancer and a knight-sergeant recovering from battlefield injuries, and the squires. The Paladin was our link to the outside world, and almost never failed in requisitioning or hunting down what we needed on his many patrols and field missions. A small plastic tree, colorful cloth, christmas lights, razorgrain, candles, and a holotape player among countless other little things. He brought back for us without question or protest, and sometimes, seemed almost happy to do these small favors.

Dare I say it, for me.

Unlike the polymer, advances on this project came near instantly. While my team of scribes ran test after test to no avail, me and my small army of merrymakers made quick work of whatever supplies were given to us. Even those soldiers who had been hesitant to allow my little project to be implemented were soon found smiling at the decorations or the absurd antics of my little helpers. Morale was boosted considerably, either through amusement at the sheer ridiculousness of it all or by the welcome distraction from the harsh reality of war. The Elder had even stopped by to watch our progress from time to time.

I had caught him looking at me the first time, when I was teaching the squires how to properly and safely hang the holiday lights. I had nearly fallen off the ladder at the sight of him, and had Clarke not been there to catch me I might have injured myself. The Elder had shaken his head in disapproval and walked back to the helm of the ship. He had been by several more times, even passing a polite greeting to myself or one of my makeshift squad, gradually warming up to us and our project.

Once I had found him struggling to help a squire set up one of the trees. Covered in plastic pine needles and swearing like a sailor, he had been quite the sight. At my stifled laugh he had frozen in place, steely grey eyes locked on me like a deer in headlights. It had taken a moment for him to recover, brush himself off, and stomp off back to the main deck in his usual storminess. That had been the last time he had actively checked on our progress, though I often caught him stealing occasional glances our way as we worked.

But now, with one last stroke of a hammer, the last string of lights is hung. The rec-room of the Prydwen glitters with soft, technicolor light and thin strips of aluminum foil. Post-apocalyptic tinsel. Neriah and Ingram had forbidden decoration in the engineering and research bays, but that did not stop my squires from hiding little drawings of trees or snowmen in nooks and crannies for scribes to find. Cheer is everywhere, infecting the soldiers and even some of the officers. A day or two ago I had seen even Proctor Quinlan with a small smile on his face.

All the Prydwen is abuzz for what surprise I'd have for them on the big day, and some, having researched the holiday on their own or seen the preparations for the unfamiliar festivities apparently ongoing in Diamond City, had purchased secret gifts for their fellow soldiers and stashed them under the little trees wrapped in old newspapers or cloth.

The air aboard the Prydwen, for me at least, is for the first time not stifling. The halls are filled with excitement, though still a carefully restrained one, for the day that is finally here. The mess sergeant is busy with the massive bird-thing, which I had suggested we roast in a whiskey marinade and, secretly, a dash of jet for a bit of flavor in our bland, regimented lives. While hesitant, he had been only too happy to do so after I recreated MacCready's roach roast for him. Tatos, instamash and spiced gourd would accompany it in the feast. The fragrant aroma of the bird had gathered nearly everyone, from the lowest scribe to the Elder himself, who now wait eagerly in the mess for their share.

From the holotape player the sultry voice of Ella Fitzgerald sings out carols of an age long gone, accompanied by the laughter and easy chatter from soldiers and officers alike. They sit side by side, drinking either beer or spirits or aqua pura together -- as my attempt at mirelurk eggnog had been a complete and utter failure -- enjoying each other's company and relaxing for the first time in, well, forever.

The smile is easy on my face, and I had even managed to get the Quartermaster to part with a few plants and herbs to doll myself up for the day. Lips stained red and hair slicked back carefully into the victory rolls of olden days, I may now be a shadow of the dame I had been before, but at least she is no longer gone completely. The eyes I feel upon me, upon my strange prewar curves and painted face, tell me I am successful in this endeavor.

I step down from the tiny stepladder, the Paladin's hand at the ready to catch me if I fall. With a playful smile I take it and daintily step down from the ladder. Once down and safely on the ground I give him a mocking curtsey and he laughs, smiling. His exhaustion is gone, despite his tireless efforts to procure all my demands in the past weeks. His smile is easier now.

Just being a gentleman, my lady, he says with that goofy smile on his face, and bows deeply back to me. I laugh outright at that. I put away the stepladder and tools and together we join my team of helpers. Knight-Sergeant Erica Renner and Lancer Isaiah Renner, the couple who had helped me in my holiday efforts, wave me down at their table. Squires Lucas, Kyle and Hannah sit with them, nearly ready to burst from excitement at the festivities. We sit beside them, looking curiously at the children who look ready to explode.

Knight-Sergeant Renner stares down the squires and raises a blond brow expectantly at the children, her own most of all, her hands on her broad hips. Squire Kyle Renner, a young boy of hardly eight, swallows nervously and looks to me, saying quickly, Thank you, Initiate Scavver, forlettingushelpyouandhavefunitwasreallyfun, can I go and play now, Mom?

Lancer Renner lets out a sigh and bends over, whispering something in his boy's ear.

The boy turns a beet red at his father's words. O-Oh. Intiate SOL. Sorry, ma'am.

It's quite alright, Squire, I laugh easily. It's easier to laugh now, surrounded by friends. It's my name, isn't it? No harm done.

Thank the Lord for the Paladin beside me, for Haylen, Lucia, Clarke, the Renners and the Squires. Without them, I don't know what I'd do. The Brotherhood, as austere as it is, is easier when you have friends to support you. I feel lighter now than I have in weeks.

After each of the squires parrot Kyle Renner's hilarious thank you, they are dismissed by the Knight-Sergeant to indulge their never-ending energy and curiosity. Each shakes their box under the messroom tree, trying to guess at what it is.

A sudden pain in my chest.

I nearly jump as a tremendous cheer rises up in the mess. The mighty bird has been removed from the spit. Dinner would soon be ready. Already, junior scribes and knights line up for chow, mouths almost visibly watering as the delicious aroma of the bird wafts throughout the ship. The mess sergeant shouts above the clamor that he still has to carve the thing, but no one listens. The room goes ballistic for the food that has driven them crazy for hours, and the mess crew is forced to serve the meat on the spot to avoid an outright riot from the soldiers. Eventually the meat is divied out somewhat evenly, the mess sergeant's favorites getting the darker and juicier bits.

Elder Maxson, however, gets the lion's share. He sits at the head of the tables, stiff and rigid in sitting among his soldiers. We, the organizers of everything, have the honor of sitting beside him, to the left. High ranking officers and knights line his right. The Paladin is seated between the Elder and I, his head held high in pride. The Elder stands.

The room goes silent.

They all look expectantly to him, some restless in their seats as they wait to dig in. The Elder looks to them then, and lifts his hands to speak. I think for the briefest of moments he resembles holy men in ancient paintings, blessing the meal before them.

Does he, perhaps, think that of himself? A messiah come to free the unworthy?

No, what a thing to think. I push the idea from my mind and clasp my hands in my lap as I make my own prayer of thanks for the meal before us, and for the Pa-- for Danse. For the Brotherhood. I pray also for forgiveness, for my own impatience and for my outbursts at those who have helped me in my time of need. As I make the sign of the cross, I hear the Elder speak.

Soldiers! He proclaims with his usual bravado. Welcome, all, to this holiday feast. We are not usually one to celebrate the holidays of life before the war, but as with all knowledge of the world before, its traditions and customs must be remembered and observed. Or, at least, its more pleasant ones.

A laugh from around the room.

We celebrate now our coming to the Commonwealth and our advances in our war against the Institute. We ready ourselves now for an expedition into the Glowing Sea to extract an escaped Institute Scientist. And, upon this glorious day, it has come to my attention that our scribes have successfully completed the application of the polymer that will protect and even empower us against the danger of radiation. Through the efforts of our best and brightest, the Brotherhood will now go where no man has gone before. Proctor Ingram, Senior Scribe Neriah, please rise.

The room erupts into raucous cheers. After my surprise at such incredible news, I cheer as loudly as the rest of them. My role had been important, although a lesser one, but Ingram and Neriah had truly been the heart and soul of the team. They were the ones who truly deserved recognition, and in our work together, we had become something of friends. I am truly and sincerely happy for them. I rise to my feet and let out an ad victoriam. The room echoes me, some going so far as to awkwardly hug Ingram in her power armor frame, and it takes a hand raised by Elder Maxson to get us to quiet once more. All are back in their seats before the Elder continues his speech.

Your work is commendable and will be rendered the appropriate honors. You and all who worked under you will be immortalized forever in the Scrolls for this achievement. Congratulations, Order of the Shield, for this tremendous accomplishment. And now Initiate Sol, please rise.

I look around, wondering why everyone is staring at me. It takes the Paladin yanking up on my arm before I realize that my name had actually been called. What for? I feel my face turn red. What had I done to deserve everyone's eyes upon me? The Elder watches my fumbling before clearing his throat and continuing.

We also celebrate the official initiation of a new sister into our Brotherhood, a prewar vault dweller who left the Commonwealth to selflessly help our cause. She has joined willingly, knowing full well her duties and expectations of one of her position. And yet, despite all of this, she has selflessly contributed much for the war effort. Without the aid and the intelligence she has provided us, we would not be nearly as close to victory as we are today.

Whispers from around the room. My face burns.

She has also worked tirelessly with the aid of several other soldiers to provide the food and decor now before you, an idea completely her own. She has provided you this respite from the horrors of war because she is your sister, despite having no shared blood or steel. What she has done for all of us will not go unrecognized. Know now the woman before you is no longer Initiate Sol, but Scribe Sol, and has just as much Steel as anyone born into it. She is truly an example to be followed and respected. To victory! Ad victoriam!

He turns to me and slams a fist to his chest, a very conspicuous and respectful salute. From. The. Elder. The room is absolutely silent.

... what?

The Paladin elbows me, and I remember what is happening. I stand tall and mirror the young Elder before me. He stares at me, his stormy eyes unreadable. I feel my face burn brighter, his profound proclamation still resounding in my ears, and the corner of his mouth pulls up in the smallest of smiles.

I don't think I've ever seen the man smile before.

And then the room erupts once more into a thunderous cry of ad victoriam, ad victoriam, sister! The soldiers beat their utensils on the table as they shout wildly, eager to eat. The Elder shouts his permission, and the soldiers immediately dig in.  
I tear my eyes from the Elder and sit down, grateful to have the massive form of Danse block my view of him. The memory of that smile lingers. I push it from my mind and look to the feast before me.

As hungrily as the rest of them I join my fellow soldiers in the dinner, which turns out to be absolutely delicious. Demands from the soldiers of having the mess sergeant also immortalized in the Scrolls for crafting such a divine meal circulate around the room over the frenzied smacking and chewing, which soon devolves into raucous laughter from all sides. The Brotherhood, for the first time since I was inducted as an initiate, feels like a true brotherhood. The air is easy, and in what feels like no time at all the meal is done and cleared away.

Soldiers of all ages and sizes, from squires to Knight-Captains, exchange gifts. Cries of joy ring around the room, and couples and friends, sons and fathers, daughters and mothers, all embrace and show their gratitude for whatever meager gift could be given. A dumbbell, a rusty necklace, a ratty book, a bottle of vodka. An empty box but a tender kiss from a sweetheart. These simple things bring immense joy to the soldiers of the Brotherhood, and the constant stoniness and exhaustion falls away from their faces to grow as bright as the multicolored lights around them. Laughter and easy chatter soon drown out the low, ever-present rumbling of the airship.

As I watch everyone, a smile lighting up my own face, a small bundle of cloth falls into my lap.

For you, says the Paladin as he takes a seat beside me. Thought I'd give you something, what with all the exemplary work you've done lately. And, well, since you're a good friend.

Oh, Danse, that's so-- oh, no. Fuck! I didn't get you anything, I was so busy with all the--

\-- Sol. No apologizing, that's an order. Now open it.

I laugh again at his blatant abuse of power and run my hand over the rough burlap. It's not the colorful wrapping paper of the prewar days, but something tells me if the Paladin had been around then he'd still use burlap to wrap things. Utilitarian and just so, so him. I carefully undo the tight knot he had tied it up in. Inside is a strange find: a yellowed baseball cradled inside a worn baseball mitt, left-handed. I touch the leather and am surprised to find it soft and preserved, despite the centuries it had likely spent out in the wastes. While cracks and discoloration line the leather, it is not at all uncomfortable to wear -- though uncomfortably small upon my hand.

I realize then it is a child's glove.

I found it on patrol, he says quietly, and I thought you might like it. Haylen says, ah, you liked baseball, before.

I suppose I might have said that. I turn the glove over in my hands, running my hands over the treated leather. He had likely spent hours oiling it and treating the leather to make it somewhat usable again. But a child's glove? Surely, he did not think my hands so small. I turn to him and smile, grateful for the thought of the gift, if nothing else. Thank you, Danse. It's a bit small, but I love it. I'll cherish it.

At that, he places a hand upon my shoulder. Of course it's small, Sol, he says with that lopsided, dimpled smile of his, it's not for you. It's for your son. For when we find him.

My heart skips a beat. Oh.

He turns a bit red at my wide-eyed stare and runs a hand through his hair. He clears his throat and continues, a bit rigid in his embarrassment. He is around ten years old now, correct? I'm sure such activities would be beneficial to, ah, familial relations. Such traditions were a method of preserving prewar family unity, if the records I referenced are accurate. You could teach him baseball. Like fathers and sons used to do... or, rather, what mother and son will do. And I did talk to that strange Swatter man in Diamond City, so if you're unable, I could even attempt to--

My arms around him and I can't see from all the tears. He laughs and pats my back, telling me that it's alright and I shouldn't be crying. It's okay, it's okay, he says over and over again to me, softly. A mantra of peace.

The Paladin is a more of a friend than I could have ever wished for, and with each and every day I thanked God or whatever strange force of fate had brought me to him that day in Cambridge. The gift and the knowledge that he actually cared about me, about my son, to have given such a thoughtful and precious gift was a more priceless treasure than anything.

And yet, from the painful pounding of my heart, I am afraid.

Nate had sent a similar gift from the front, when he had heard about my unexpected pregnancy. Neither of us had particularly wanted children, more than content with each other's company and our own ambitions. But he had been ecstatic at the news, and had insisted that when he got home he'd teach his son how to play baseball, as his father had taught him. He had found a glove in the ruins of Alaska and sent it back home, adamant that I send back pictures of him with it. I told him time and time again that I didn't even know if I was having a boy and how on earth an infant was going to use a baseball mitt.

I remember it now, that little mitt sitting atop an end table in his nursery, waiting patiently for my son to grow. I remember my Nate, broken by war, staring despairingly at that glove, knowing in his heart of hearts he'd never be able to teach his son to play. In the end he had eventually come to terms with that, but even that had not been enough. The bombs had fallen and he had died. Shaun had grown so much, spirited away from the family who had so dearly loved him, and he would never learn to play catch with his father.

In another life, this would have been our first Christmas together.

But Danse -- the Paladin -- he had offered to take up the role on this day, this day of firsts. What on earth did that mean? And why did the thought of that not seem so terribly wrong to me? Nate has been dead in the ground for a few scant months. Have I been allowing another man to start to take his place in my heart? In my life?

Dear God, have I?

It doesn't matter what the answer is.  My heart hurts, by god, it hurts.  I need to get away.

I break away from him and wipe away my tears quickly with the sleeve of my uniform. I set down the glove and ball, mumble something about needing to clear my head, and dash off, ducking and weaving through the celebration.

It is stifling again. The air is too hot and the cheers and shouts resound off the walls of the Prydwen in a deafening cacophony, screaming in my ears like the cries of the damned.

My breathing is heavy. I can't breathe. Oh god, I can't breathe.

I am drowning in a sea of people. Sinking, the world around me swims.

Finally, I get to the bulkhead to the forecastle.

I wrench open the door and throw myself outside with a gasp, finally free from the raging sea of Brotherhood. I lay upon the freezing metal of the forecastle, my breath heavy and labored and clouded in the December chill. My mind races, my heart threatens to burst from my chest, and it takes only the biting winter air to slow my panic.

After what feels like an eternity, after the screaming and the shouting has died out into a comfortable silence, I manage to stand.

I haven't had a panic attack in years. Not since I had been a child. Yet here I am, struggling to keep myself upright against the railing of an airship hundreds of feet in the air. The dizzying height, ironically, is preferable to the temptation that the Paladin represents. I should be mourning my husband, pouring every effort into finding my son, yet here I am embracing, growing to care for even, some other man.

His heart still belongs to Cutler after all these years. He's told me as much. It's not like he would ever grow to love me. Care for me, yes, but nothing more.  I know that, that we are only friends, and that's okay.  

It should be okay.  

But a whisper in the back of my head, ever present, has grown louder.  Stronger.  My lightheartedness, it tells me, my happiness, is something that should not be.  How dare you be happy, laughing, celebrating, it says.  Your husband is in the ground and your son is god knows where.  Yet here you are.  What kind of woman are you?

Nate's face hovers before me.  His dead, empty eyes bore into my very soul.

I touch a hand to my chest at the pain of it all, the other a deathgrip on the railing. I feel this dead man's gaze upon me, accusing, asking me why. Did I not still love him? I was his wife, he has not been dead two months and already I have welcomed another into my heart.  I had allowed him to banish my grief, replace it with a smile.  How dare I think, accept such things into my life.

Why, why, why, that soulless face wails, How could you do this to me, sunshine? Have you forgotten me so soon?  Don't you still love me?

I wipe away my tears that have quickly frozen to my face. With my sleeve, with my fingers, with my nails. No, no, no.  Stop it.  Stop it!  Go away!  You're not real!

A voice that is not mine or the ghost's breaks the silence. Are you okay, scribe?

Okay, okay, that blasted mantra between me and Nate, stolen for Danse. It hurts my heart.

I turn to shout at him to stop it, to leave me alone. Just something. I know full well I'm overreacting, hysterical even.

But I need to yell, to scream. At someone, anything.

Especially Danse.

But the man in the doorway is not Danse. The Elder stands there, tall and proud in his somber black uniform and battlecoat despite the festivities, brow raised in genuine surprise. I hold my tongue immediately and push myself upright. I move to try to salute him, but he waves a hand dismissively. No, not right now, that wave says. My hand falls pathetically back to my side, a limp, dead fish.

He steps out onto the forecastle. The bulkhead slams shut behind him, sealing away the music and celebration behind it. The forecastle is silent save for the faint, gentle sound of snowfall. He steps to stand beside me.

Care to explain why the mastermind behind all this is presently not present?

I needed some air, Elder. That's all. I'm fine.

The Elder places his hands on the railing beside mine.

If I might remind you that is a punishable offense to -- don't you interrupt me, Scribe -- to lie to a superior officer. I'm not blind. You're a mess, soldier, fix yourself. With a grunt he gestures to my face, the makeshift makeup I had applied smeared and utterly destroyed by my tears.

I sniff and try to wipe it off with the sleeve of my uniform.

Scribe! That uniform is not yours, don't wipe away that mess with it. He grabs my wrist before I can bring my sleeve to my cheek, holding it there. After a moment he reaches into a pocket of his coat to retrieve, of all things, a kerchief. He roughly scrapes it across my face, the antithesis of delicacy, though from his furrowed brow and tightly drawn mouth I can see that roughness is not entirely his intention. After a moment of almost painful scratching and scrubbing, he lets out a resigned sigh and surrenders the kerchief to me.

I look at him, then to my pinned arm, and back to him. His grip is incredibly tight upon me, his hand a vice upon me. Does he not know his own strength, or is he simply that mad? I swallow a growing lump in my throat and try to wriggle my hand free. Realizing perhaps that he was still holding me, he releases me with a flourish, running a hand through his hair. A gesture that says, no, I most certainly did not forget I was still holding you.

While you take care of, that, he says, turning abruptly away from me, care to tell me what you're doing out here? You should be celebrating with your brothers and sisters.

It is a surprisingly tender gesture from the Elder. I slowly wipe at my face, trying to find the right words and find my bearings again. The ghost has vanished into the night, and my heart has slowed and returned to a normal rhythm. The world is normal again, in its own distorted and messed up way. Everything is either destroyed or dead, distant. Comfortably quiet. The chaos I created inside is far away. The snow falls gently, silently, a blessing of peace from the heavens.

As I said, sir, I came out to get some air.

From what, exactly?

I do not want to say it. To admit it, lest my words make my feelings, my sins, real. The memory of a ghost lingers, his eyes empty, staring. Eyes that are cold and dead and gone.

I look at the Elder, straight at him, as I do not tower over him like so many others. His gaze shifts right to me, steely grey and unreadable. From his posture, he is not used to not looking down at others. He is uncomfortable with me, around me. To look ahead and stare straight into me. His eyes are those of a man twice his age, despite his obvious youth, and flash with determination. Authority. He is unmoving, still as stone, and will not budge until his question is answered. And from the set of his shoulders and feet, he will not allow me to move either.

At my silence, he rolls his shoulders and leans upon the railing, looking down upon the Commonwealth, the distant lights of settlements, and the endless array of stars above. Diamond City shines not entirely white, tiny twinkles of colors break the monotony -- we are not the only ones celebrating tonight. The Elder seems content to look out upon them, at least until I finally decide to answer him.

Which I do not.

A sigh of breath leaves his lips in clouds, some of it dusting white the edges of his wild beard.

You are not the only one in mourning, scribe, says the Elder, gaze locked upon the faraway lights. We have all lost people here. We have all made immeasurable sacrifices for the greater good, as you have. It does one no good to lock oneself away, to let things fester. Pick yourself up, get over it.

I find myself seething, every fiber of my being trembling with rage withheld for weeks on end.  My frustration, my guilt, for my friendship with Danse.  Watching my husband die, my baby stolen.  My ongoing failure to find my son.  All of it, I have kept bottled up and stashed away.  

Now, I find myself hurling that bottle of wild, suppressed emotion at the Elder like a fucking Molotov.

Did others have everything they had ever known stripped away, their only child ripped from their murdered husband's arms?  Did others have to do everything in their power to set things right, only to be treated like a subhuman piece of garbage?  To have it thrown right back in their face?  Only to be told to pick yourself up and get over it by some punk over two centuries younger than them?  Please, enlighten me, O Great Elder Maxson.  Tell me.  How did the others get over forgetting their own son's face?

The Elder draws his mouth into a thin line. From his eyes, I see that he knows he had spoken wrong. But from the rest of him, I know he will die before he admits it. His grip tightens on the railing, reining in a fiery anger of his own. His voice is low as he speaks.

I do not appreciate you taking that tone with me, Scribe.

Well, Elder. Get over it.

He is a dragon then, pivoting instantly upon his heel to jab a finger into my chest. Hard. He stares at me with eyes wild with fury, nostrils flaring. He says nothing. He does not need to. I am suddenly aware that with the slightest push, he could send me toppling over the railing to the runway below. To certain death. The veins bulging in his neck, the pressure of his finger digging painfully into my chest, it all tells me he most certainly wants to.

He looks over me once, twice. Considering.

With a grunt, he tears his hand away and turns back to the railing. After a moment, and after I steady my frantic breathing, he speaks once more.

I refuse to tolerate such blatant disrespect again, scribe. But I suppose I have been somewhat... insensitive, with my words. The Elder's grip is dangerously tight upon the railing, the muscles in his arms visible even beneath his thick jacket. He forces his breath to slow, to expel his rage at my insolent words. In, out, In... out. He lets out a sigh and releases the railing. His mouth opens, then upon second thought closes. He clears his throat and with some great effort, speaks once more.

My... apologies, scribe.

Surprising words from a man who apologizes to no one. Who answers to no one. I blink back my surprise. Instantly I am deflated, my anger gone.

I barely manage to stammer back an apology of my own. Panic subsides.

No, no. That is not needed. The Elder says, his cheeks growing pink, undoubtedly from the winter chill. I should be more understanding of your unique situation. You are a faithful wife and a good mother, to be worried so about your son. You've done far more than most would do and I respect that. Really, I do.

Could have fooled me.

Hrmph. I suppose I deserve that. The Elder lets out a sigh. You are not used to this life, I should not expect -- no, wrong words again. I'm not used to dealing with civilians, god dammit... What I'm trying to say is, the Brotherhood is doing everything in its power to reach the Institute. We will find your son. As I stated earlier, you've done much for us, for a cause that is not your own, despite knowing what that might entail. What kind of life you will live from this point on. Returning your son to you is the least we can do to repay you for your considerable sacrifice.

The Elder nods slowly after he has spoken, his mouth still drawn into a thin line, a show of nervousness that betrays his youth and inexperience in life. Though a capable warlord, he is still an incredibly young man. A young man confused and fumbling to find his way in life and the world around him, or in the case of Arthur Maxson, in attempting to comfort someone.

I find myself smiling, albeit weakly, at him and gently place his kerchief back in his hand. At that, he appears even more befuddled. He runs a hand through his carefully cropped hair. He clears his throat as he pockets the kerchief.

So. Ahem. Life in the Brotherhood. I trust you've grown accustomed to it?

After this show of humanity, the man of steel doesn't seem so much a threat, or an enemy. I answer him calmly and easily, or at least, much more than before.

As it's a punishable offense to lie to a superior officer, Elder, I won't. It hasn't been easy. Da-- the Paladin, the squires and Scribe Haylen have been helping. It's... slow, but I'm learning to like it here.

You and Paladin Danse are close.

We are... friends.

As we all have seen. You've made him smile again. He hasn't since the, the unfortunate incident with Lyons' Pride. His own face is unsmiling, and he shrugs his shoulders. The coat is tight upon him, and evidently does little to shield him from the cold.

He sniffs from the cold. It's almost comical, for the ever-serious Elder.

I would not blame you if you ultimately choose him, despite his... preferences. He is a good man and an even better soldier. He would treat you well, and it would be a good match in the eyes of many. But, you are just friends, you say?

A strange question from an even stranger source. Choose Danse? For what? I am sure the bewilderment is plain on my face, as I restate that, yes, the Paladin is just a friend. And come hell or high water, I promise myself, it's going to stay that way. I'm a widow, for God's sake. Even if my guilt did not haunt me every waking moment, I cannot distract myself from that with things like love or companionship. Shaun is still out there, somewhere. Why do you ask, Elder?

Hm. No reason particularly worth mentioning. Curiosity, perhaps. He lets out a sigh, as if he had been almost holding it, billowing in a misty cloud like dragon's smoke. Though what I am more curious about... It's freezing out here. Are you trying to catch cold, Scribe?

No, Elder. I came out for--

For air, as you've said, yes, yes I know. But in this air, you'll freeze. That, that won't do.

With one smooth and fluid movement, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders. I try to stop him, knowing full well he needs the thing more, but he simply snaps back at me not to talk back to my Elder. I stand still, a mannequin, unable to protest as he adjusts the coat upon me. The offering of a coat to a lady is a gentlemanly gesture, yes, but now it feels only a burden. In his awkwardness, his inexperience, perhaps, at anything other than the duties of a young warlord, he does not notice my discomfort in having this gift foisted upon me. I remember his finger jabbing into me, my entire being mere inches from tumbling down hundreds of feet to the runway. Refusing such a gift would probably not be wise.

I give him a small smile and thank him for the unexpectedly kind gesture. He nods back, mumbling a polite response as he crosses his arms. He shivers even more violently than before, but he clenches his jaw and crosses his arms defiantly, fighting a battle even against the biting winter wind. He is losing.

I hug the coat close to my body to keep it from flying away in the wind. Maxson's battlecoat is impossibly large. I feel dwarfed in it. It is pleasantly warm, luxuriously so with its soft fur lining, but it is also heavy with what I can only assume to be interior ballistic shielding. Its owner stands tall and proud, black uniform pulled tight across his muscular physique -- visibly attempting to repress his violent shivering. After a moment of looking me over, this absurd sight of a tall and lanky woman in an armored coat much too large for her, He makes his way from me back to the bulkhead.

I do hope you join us back inside, scribe. We would all appreciate the company of our newest sister.

And with a curt nod, he returns to the ship.

And so I stand alone upon the lonely forecastle of the Prydwen, the coat of a man named Arthur draped upon my shoulders like a veil.

Like armor.

His coat is warm upon my shoulders, shielding me against the wind. A harsh gust, and I pull it tighter around me. With the chill, even the whispers of guilt and ghosts and demons subside. With a renewed strength I breathe in deeply, feeling the cold air stab at my very core like icy knives. They do not hurt me.

While I do not have love or my son, I am strong in that I have friends and allies, here aboard my lead balloon prison. Even the leader of all these tin soldiers is looking out for me, in his own way. For the first time, the Brotherhood is brotherhood, with the little b. Companionship, alliances, strength. No longer is it a misty island, a great unknown, some terrible and unknowable thing. Real. I look upon the Commonwealth, at the twinkling lights of celebration, and feel strong.

I look up at the stars high above my lofty perch and breathe. I breathe again. I live again. I live again, I am strong again, to fight another day. For Shaun. For Nate.

For the Brotherhood.

Ad victoriam, I whisper like a promise to the heavens.

I head back inside, shutting the door with a slam against the ghosts of the past and all the demons of the Commonwealth far below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another monster of a chapter. Whew! And one about Christmas and hope for the future, alright! Hope, yeah! Hopefully it won't go and get crushed next chapter or anything...
> 
> Let me know what you think and as always, comments and critique are always welcome.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all who read and comment, and especially to dianekepler for her always wonderful advice and support. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :D
> 
> >> Note: Tags have been changed to reflect the upcoming story. From here on out, the story will reflect that of the Handmaid's Tale. It is dark, disturbing and highly controversial. If you are sensitive to such content, I thank you for reading this far, but I must dissuade you from reading further. My Brotherhood is not a pleasant one. I would also like to stress that this story is not about men dominating women, per se, but the strength of men and women surviving and overcoming such a society.

A new year came, and with it came a new me. A new brotherhood within the Brotherhood. I threw myself wholeheartedly into my field training and the development of the resources needed to survive the Glowing Sea. I aided Ingram with the application of the piezonucliec polymer onto our power armor. I aided Neriah in her serum research, which she later dubbed the X-111 serum for my stalwart assistance in creating it. I made the best effort I could at furthering the goals of the Brotherhood, playing the ever faithful and dedicated soldier despite slowly going mad. Though I had ascended from Initiate to Scribe, though I was now closer to my new fellows than ever before, I was forbidden from leaving the Prydwen.

And no one would tell me why.

So instead I work. To keep my mind of the itching unrest ever-growing in the back of my mind. If I work harder, if I just get all of this done, they’ll finally let me out. I’ll go to the Glowing Sea. I’ll get one step closer to my son.

My diligence impressed all those around me, the Elder most of all.

Before my talk with him aboard the forecastle, I had seen him perhaps once or twice in passing, and I had maintained a very respectful distance from the man. He was a somewhat frightening thing to me, an unpredictable young warlord who was more fire-breathing dragon than man. With the coming of the new year, however, he began walking the decks. Lancer-Captain Kells would usually accompany him, and after a time, he seemed more approachable. Friendlier, in his own prickly way. The frightening warlord from the forecastle seemed a distant memory, dulled by another, the warmth of his coat. His acceptance of me, his proclamation that I now belonged to the Brotherhood.

It was a good feeling, and staved off the bad, for a time.

Danse — The Paladin — had been at his side when he finally came to me, when he had commended me on my work for the upcoming expedition. It had been the briefest of meetings, a stop upon his now regular stroll through along the decks, a rough clap on the shoulder and the smallest of approving nods before heading off to whatever Brotherhood Elders do. I had thought nothing of it, simply a Keep it up from the boss, but what did linger in my thoughts was the Paladin beside him.

After my breakdown at the holiday party, he had kept his distance. After returning from the forecastle, returning the Elder’s coat and rejoining the party — things were inexplicably different. While the rest of my brothers and sisters began to accept and even welcome me into the fold, Danse grew further and further away. We no longer had names for each other. Hello, Paladin. Good evening, Scribe. No more easy touches, no more wayward glances. No more surprise gifts from the Commonwealth or stories of the past. No, he was almost pious in his professionalism.

I don’t know whether it was my sudden flight from his thoughtful gift or if he had witnessed my shameful outburst on the forecastle, but the Paladin was no longer Danse. He kept me at arms length both in a metaphorical and literal sense. He no longer shook my hand or did PT with me, and walking beside me or escorting me to my bunk became a thing of the past. Gradually, he began to keep his eyes carefully averted when I tried talking to him. As if even meeting my eyes was something wrong. Forbidden.

When I had called him by his name, he had called it highly unprofessional and inappropriate and made me run laps round the Prydwen. At first I had thought it a joke, but when I mentioned that he had me run again. When I had asked him what the fuck was going on, I ran a third time. After that lap, and I had pleaded with him out of breath for an answer, he mumbled something about someone disapproving and walked off.

He began outright avoiding me after that.

This past Blamco night he took his meal in his room, and I found myself alone at our usual table. While a small part of me was grateful for the Paladin’s sudden distance, the man had grown to be such a large part of my life aboard the Prydwen. It felt emptier without him at my side, laughing and joking or even simply acknowledging me, like a piece of my heart had been ripped out and thrown away. I had wanted a friend, and instead it became… whatever this was.

And so I work, always, for hours on end I work, sacrificing even food and sleep at times to complete it as quickly and efficiently as possible. I keep myself always busy, always working, mindless. To keep my mind off of everything. In particular, the sudden and confusing loss of the closest thing I had to a friend.

I am not the only one sleepless and working myself to the bone, however. All on the Prydwen and those below in the airport are restless. We will be going where no one had ever gone to and returned completely whole. And in this venture, everyone has a part to play.

Even the squires scurry about, relaying messages and supplies between soldiers and development or logistics teams. Squire Renner, his eyes dark and sunken in their exhaustion, stands attempting to catch his breath at the edge of Neriah’s lab. Poor thing, he’s likely been running around all night. I look over at Senior Scribe Neriah, slumped over her lab equipment, a mug of coffee, long since having gone cold, still clasped in her hand. The other scribes are preoccupied with their own work, bustling with the mole rats or the corpses or the herbs or equipment, too busy or too tired to notice the young boy.

I set down my own equipment and beckon him over. He stumbles over to me, a huge yawn escaping his mouth. His squire’s cap sits lopsided upon his head and his uniform is in disarray. So young, and already as diligent and hardworking as his parents. As I look at him rubbing his bleary eyes, stumbling over his own feet, I don’t know if I should admire his hard work and faithfulness to the Brotherhood or be horrified by it. Did he even understand what the Brotherhood stood for? Before the war, this boy would be in school, playing baseball with the neighbor kids — no, he would be kept safe from the ideas of war and hatred and death. But, here in this new terrible reality, could he have ever known something similar? Or would he be doomed in any walk of life here in the Commonwealth or in the Capital Wasteland to only know hunger and neverending war? To grow up long before he ever had a chance to be a child?

Had my Shaun shared the same cruel fate within the Institute?

The boy comes up to me and draws himself to attention, rendering a tired but respectful salute to me.

Squire Kyle Renner reporting. Message for Senior Scribe Neriah from the Elder, ma’am.

I do not return it, and instead bend down to correct his cap and readjust the collar of his uniform. He glows a beet red at my mothering and looks down at his feet, apologizing for his unkempt appearance. My heart breaks a little at that. He should be playing in the mud or chasing dogs or doing things all young boys do, getting even more unkempt and dirty. He should be playing and getting into trouble with other boys and girls his age. Instead, the boy before me is a child soldier. Before the war, such a thing would have been the most heinous of war crimes, some unthinkable and deplorable evil. Here, training children for war is a terrible and unfortunate reality. A necessity.

Hush, I say with a gentle smile, you’re not in trouble. Just looking out for, for a fellow soldier. Ah, there we go. Looking spick and span now. So, tell me, Squire, have you been running messages all night?

Yes’m.

Have you gotten chow yet?

His stomach answers for me, rumbling nearly as loud as the engines around us. I chuckle a bit at that and retrieve a small package of Fancy Lads I had been saving for a sugary early morning pick-me-up, closing the Squire’s small fingers around it. He looks at me in surprise, then his face lights up with a toothy, cheery smile. Oh, he’s still so young — he just lost a tooth. Had Shaun lost all his baby teeth now? I swallow the growing lump in my throat and shake away my thoughts of Shaun. I can’t show weakness, not here, not now.

Not ever.

Focus, focus.

What’s the message, Squire? Neriah’s… resting. I look over the Senior Scribe, her face squished against her worktable. Her team of scribes have moved the equipment away from the range of her sleepy twitches, but they haven’t dared wake her. With exhaustion had come a particular nastiness and particularity that we were all grateful to get a reprieve from. Squire Renner nods slowly, understanding.

Well, the Elder wanted to see you, ma’am, he says. I was sent to ask Senior Scribe Neriah for permission to, ah, requee… rekwa… requisition you?

Elder Maxson wants to see me at four in the morning? I feel my brow furrow in my puzzlement, but quickly relay the message to the most senior scribe, who simply waves me off. We’re almost finished with the last of the serum, they’ll be fine without me. And so I follow Scribe Renner through the quiet halls of the Prydwen, chatting quietly with him as he inhales his newly acquired snack cakes before anyone catches him with them. By the time we reach the officers’ quarters, he’s sucking off the sugar on his fingertips. After each and every grain of sugar is gone, he wipes his hand on his trousers and knocks once. Twice. Three times upon the Elder’s door.

Elder, sir, Scribe Sol is here.

From behind the door, an Enter.

Adjusting my own scribe’s robes and the cracked glasses upon my nose, I push open the door and enter. The Elder’s room is spotless, befitting the ever clean-cut and proper man. A desk with a terminal on the far end, arms and ammunition canisters everywhere else. A Brotherhood flag, a bright and blazing orange, hangs upon the wall. The Elder stands on the opposite side of the table, his eyes locked upon the winged sword and gears. His gaze is thoughtful, and decidedly grave.

I nervously stand at attention, rendering the proper salute.

Elder.

He simply points to the table before me, not bothering to look my way. My brow furrows ever deeper in my confusion, and I wordlessly comply. Is he angry with me? Oh, god.

I sit silently for several long moments, unable to do anything but sit quietly, back rigid and upright as was proper in the presence of the Elder. My heart is pounding. The ghost of his hand upon my chest, pushing me over the railing, lingers. I remember also the feeling of his coat upon me, delightfully warm and pleasant despite the event just minutes prior. I didn’t know what to think of the Elder, so I tread now upon eggshells around him. So far, I have not awakened the dragon lingering within him.

But he has never summoned me to his quarters before.

I go over the events of the past week in my mind, thinking and rethinking each of my actions and searching desperately for whatever thing I had done that might have angered him. Had I slacked in my duties? No, I had been diligent, as always. Had I missed morning muster? No, I was exempt as I was on night shift. Had I, perhaps, insulted someone? Disrespected someone?

Danse — wait, no. The Paladin, now. It must be.

I swallow nervously, clenching and unclenching my fists in my lap.

He turns now to face me. His face ever grim and yet strangely cordial. Perhaps it is the noticeable absence of his wild beard, which now lines his strong and stubborn jaw carefully trimmed and cut. He looks younger, more handsome, and less of some terrifying warlord like I had seen in history books before the war. My apprehension lessens, if but a little. He takes a seat opposite me, clasping his hands upon the table. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak, I imagine.

I clear my throat.

Good morning, Elder, I say, banishing the nervousness from my expression and my voice. I straighten my back, raise my eyes to meet his own steely grey ones. He seems intrigued at my careful composure, but does not say anything. I inhale deeply, bidding my racing heart to slow itself. I remain polite. How are you this morning?

As well as one can be, scribe, he replies. But do you know why I summoned you here today?

I do not, Elder. … Is it about the Paladin?

He raises a brow at that. Oh. It wasn’t about that. But it certainly is now.

The Paladin? Pray tell, scribe. Why would you be here about the Paladin?

Stupid, stupid. I want to kick myself. I let out the smallest sigh I can manage, keeping the rest restrained behind my carefully composed mask of calm. I mirror the Elder, clasping my hands delicately above the table, a subtle sign to show that I hide nothing. A lie, most definitely, but one the Elder does not need to know. I shrug my shoulders, feigning a half-truthed innocence.

You did ask after him the last time we spoke, Elder.

He appears satisfied by my answer. So I did, scribe. So I did. But it just so happens that he is indeed part of what I called you in for. Did Paladin Danse ever inform you of the duties of someone of your… unique situation would have within the Brotherhood?

I was informed that I would receive training as a field scribe, and that I would be a part of the expedition into the Glowing Sea, sir. I feel the corner of my mouth twitch in my nervousness, or perhaps in my exhaustion. I will it to stop. I must uphold my mask in front of this dangerous man. I cannot let on weakness. I must be strong. I continue.

I’ve been working day and night to prepare for this mission, sir, in both training for field missions as well as research and development — as you’ve undoubtedly witnessed yourself.

Yes, that I have. Your dedication to the cause has been nothing short of exemplary. You’ve been working as diligently as your brothers and sisters, if not more so. It will not go unrecognized.

I furrow my brow. Then why am I here at four in the fucking morning, I think to myself, clasping my hands a bit tighter, the nervousness undoubtedly peeking through the ever-growing cracks in my mask. I sit silently, the blood pounding in my ears in my anticipation, waiting. From the tone of his voice, from the slight sag in his shoulders and the furrowing of his brow, there is a catch. A horrible however sitting on the tip of his tongue, held there carefully either by guilt or some sick, sadistic dramatic effect. Moments pass and a nearby clock sounds out their passing, filling the otherwise silent room. Tick, tick, tick. Like a bomb.

But your duties demand that you stay here, Scribe, aboard the Prydwen. You are no longer to accompany Paladin Danse and his team to the Glowing Sea. They will leave as scheduled next week, and you will stay here and continue studying the Codex.

There it is. I feel my face fall, that ghostly touch upon my chest flinging me off the railing. I am in free fall, falling to crash against the pavement far below. The breath catches in my chest, my heart nearly stops. I’ve hit the runway. My hands fall to my lap. No, they are still there, all too real. I am still in a chair. I am still painfully alive, this is happening, it is real, as much I as do not wish to believe it.

… What?

I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to go into the Glowing Sea.

What! My mask of composure is gone. I stand, slamming my hands down upon the table. The Elder slowly turns his eyes up to me, apparently unperturbed and unsurprised by my reaction. You can’t do this, I hear myself say, my voice trembling as I hold back the bitter tears of rage, You can’t keep me from this expedition.

On the contrary, I can and I will. I have.

This is the, the only lead I have to finding my son. You can’t. You can’t just…! You can’t just keep me from him!

He lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Scribe. Do you or do you not understand the duties of one in your position?

I’ve been doing them, Elder. I’ve been doing them, dear God, I’ve been working so, so hard. To the bone! I’ve done everything asked of me and more, you said so yourself. Why are you doing this? Why are you keeping me from finding my son?

He looks at me then, brow raised in genuine surprise. He blinks, letting his hand fall back to his side.

You really don’t know, do you? Danse didn’t tell you?

With his words come the image of the Paladin’s eyes, carefully averted. His distance after my flight to the forecastle, his sudden absence in my life. The strange guilt in his eyes. What on earth does he mean?

The Elder inhales deeply, leaning back in his chair as he searched for words. He curses the Paladin under his breath and runs a hand through his carefully combed hair before looking back to me. Several more moments of tenseness pass before he finally speaks. His words are slow and careful, as if speaking to a child.

The Glowing Sea, such an environment poses too much of a risk to you. The Brotherhood cannot afford to lose you, Scribe.

Elder, excuse me, but what? I throw my arms out in my bewilderment, all semblance of composure gone. And I don’t care. My voice is loud, nearly hysterical, and likely carries all throughout the Prydwen. Again, I don’t care. I’m no Neriah or Ingram, sir. I’m just a junior scribe! You’ve got dozens of soldiers who could do my job on this ship — I need to be on this mission.

On the contrary, you are the only one who cannot. The Elder looks up at me, his face grave. You are a Vault Dweller, a young mother before the Great War no less, and so you are the healthiest woman the Brotherhood has ever seen. The radiation of the Glowing Sea or even the Commonwealth poses too much risk to you. Or, that is to say — he pauses, clearing his throat — to your capability as a mother.

I stare at him.

Exposure to the ambient radiation in the Glowing Sea or the frequent radstorms of the Commonwealth would ravage your body, specifically your womb, and eliminate your ability to have children. This is a risk the Brotherhood cannot afford to take.

The image of MacCready screaming at me flashes before my eyes. His mouth moves, his eyes wild with fear. With a memory. Someone. Lucy? What almost happened to Lucy. Oh, god, what does that mean? What does my being a mother have to do with anything? What does Shaun have to do with anything? I stare at the Elder, my heart sinking to a low, dark and cold place as I struggle to put together the puzzle of his words. I see a potential, horrible thing but it is a thing that cannot be. Should not be. Jesus Christ, please do not let it be.

I should have expected this, from how attached Danse is to you. He could not bring himself to tell you. I suppose I should not put it past him — he is a good man, but he is still a wastelander. He does not immediately see what is best for the Brotherhood. What must be done for the greater good. The Elder takes a deep breath. It is… unfortunate, that you must learn of your duties this way. But know that what you must do is a necessary sacrifice for the survival of humanity.

My mouth is dry, and my words are scant more than a whisper. The truth, if it is the truth, is something I cannot stomach. It cannot be. Elder, I say, what must I do?

You are a mother. And a mother you must be for the Brotherhood.

He sits there, saying this horrible, unthinkable thing as if it is some common truth, some undeniable and obvious reality. I remember Preston’s words, MacCready’s. The Brotherhood is not to be trusted. They are only out for themselves. What they almost did to MacCready’s wife Lucy, the mother of his—

Oh, oh god. Mothers, sons, it suddenly all made sense. Why the Paladin had been so interested in helping me. Why I was so easily allowed into the Brotherhood. Why they had so readily agreed to find my son. I think of the Prydwen, of the children aboard. Three squires and only three squiress, and other than Nat and a handful of other children in Diamond City, children were precious few in this horrible, ruined world. As a mother searching for her young son, I am more valuable to the Brotherhood than any piece of junk. With me, being a mother, I would— oh god. Oh, god, no.

Realization hits me . I feel my knees buckle beneath me and I fall into my chair. Maxson’s voice seems distant. I don’t want it to be real. Let it all be some sick joke, let it all be some horrible lie.

Scribe, he says, we’ve been more than accommodating to you. Due to your unique circumstances we’ve given you ample time to adapt to your new surroundings and get to know your fellows. I suppose that is what Danse intended in keeping the truth from you, in requesting that you be treated as an equal. I think he even tried to hide it from me, at first, your son. But time grows short — that is all the past. Cade tells me that you are you nearly thirty now. You have but a few years of fertility left. We can wait on you no longer, and with that in mind, under no circumstance can we risk what precious life you might be able to bear to the radiation of the Glowing Sea.

Elder, I say, struggling to stop shaking, to find words, I… I didn’t… no. No, I can’t… I refuse. I refuse. I can’t do this, this thing you’re asking of me.

I’m not asking, Scribe. And I’m afraid you have no longer have any choice in the matter.

Sweat beads on my forehead, rolls into my eyes. Salty, stinging. This can’t be happening. If it is, well… I’ll refuse again, I’ll promise to leave. Yes. I’ll find another way to find Shaun. This is too much, this is all too much. I can’t possibly be expected to be some sort of mindless breeder for these people, these people I’ve befriended over the past few months. How could friends ask this of someone, anyone? This horrible, heinous thing? As the Elder speaks, I feel sick.

Please know that we in the Brotherhood are not savages. You will be treated with the utmost respect for your sacrifice and your son will be returned to you upon the destruction of the Institute. He will be given a place in the Brotherhood as a squire as if he were born to it. In the meantime, for your commitment shown thus far in this endeavor, you may choose for yourself a partner among the upper caste of the Brotherhood — myself included. You will live a comfortable life, more comfortable than anything you may have lived in the wasteland, and you will be amply compensated for your service.

For my, my service? Is this some sort of joke?

No. I am quite serious, scribe. I would appreciate your understanding on the matter.

You would appreciate my understanding on the matter. I scoff, wiping away the sweat and tears and fear with a shaking hand. This is real, isn’t it? Oh, god. I bite down on my lip, trying to stay strong. I taste blood. Oh, god, they were right. They were right. I look at him and tell him through my tears that I would appreciate being treated like a human. Like my body is my own.

He crosses his arms and shakes his head, letting out a weary sigh. He is tired of arguing over the semantics of my imminent slavery, it would seem.

Your body is not your own, not anymore, he says, upon joining the Brotherhood, you forfeited that. You agreed that you now belong to us, in return for helping you find your son. If you wish to ever see your son again, Scribe Sol, I would suggest accepting this fact sooner rather than later.

And now, I suppose he is correct, my body is indeed no longer of my own. It moves of its own volition now.

My body takes the chair beneath it and hurls it with a feral shriek at the Elder, and in the blink of the eye I watch this foreign body dart down the halls like a bat out of hell. A tall and lanky woman in an ill-fitting robe and boots, her hair and eyes wild and cracked glasses askew. She is an animal, cornered and caged and afraid, looking for any way out. Her breath is ragged and whining in her fear, her face wet with terrified tears. Is this woman truly me?

I do not want her to be.

The Prydwen is different now, in its drab metal catwalks and leaden walls, in its cold metal denizens. The halls are suddenly confining and menacing, the dim electric lighting flickering and burning against the encroaching darkness like the flames of hell. Faces look upon the woman, unfamiliar and threatening, eyes flashing like the eyes of ghosts and creatures of the forest. Teeth like fangs, mouths opening and closing wordlessly as they speak words the terrified woman can no longer understand.

She runs through the labyrinthine halls, jumping over railings and shoving aside soldiers in her hurried flight. She can’t remember where to go in her panic. She runs aimlessly, her feet spurred on by the sound of shouting behind her. Run, run, screams her frantic mind. Run, run, screams her pounding heart.

She descends in her flight to the flight deck and tears open the bulkhead. Vertibirds lining the edges of the outer catwalk shake in the ferocious wind. It howls like hungry wolves in her ears as it tears at her hair and her robes. Grasping and pulling like hands.

Grasping, grabbing, taking. Around her throat, choking. About her ankles, tripping, stumbling.

She will not be taken.

She runs for a vertibird she cannot fly, her shaking hands fumbling with controls she does not understand. The machine does not listen to her screams.

She decides then that if she cannot fly the bird, she will become one.

Anything to get away.

She, no, I… hesitate.

I need to find Shaun. I need to find him. My hands cling to the cold railing, knuckles white and skin stinging from the freezing metal. I can’t, I can’t give up. But can I really do this impossible, despicable thing they ask of me? To sell myself into, into --

A hand yanks me back from the railing. I look back and through my tears, I see the Paladin. He is struggling to keep his face from mirroring mine, his mouth drawn tightly and brow furrowed in his sympathy. I see that and feel the faintest shred of hope.

Paladin. Paladin, please. I plead with him breathlessly, begging. Please, help me. Save me.

His grip tightens.

Danse, please. You can’t let them, you can’t let them take me. Please.

And as quickly as it had come, that tiny spark flickers and dies as the Paladin yanks me back.

I’m sorry, he says, and drags me away.

Why did you tell them you have a son?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we have come to our Handmaid's Tale parallel. The upcoming chapters will be, shall I say, intense.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think in the comments! Advice, critique and anything else are always welcome!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Warning] Sexual Violence.

Time passes in a blur. It is not quick nor is it slow, it simply is. Days pass and days go, though their passage is marked only by the movements of the arms on a clock or by the nervous babbler of DCR. They do not allow me on the decks anymore, not after my flight attempt.

Flight. It is an interesting word, meaning having had fled, or flown. Either: seeking freedom. My failure at flight, in either meaning, had resulted in the clipping of my wings and the doors of this bird’s cage to slam shut upon me. My cage is around me now, humming and thrumming and cold.

The cold water washes over me, chilling me to the bone. I do not take my showers hot anymore, and I take them alone. The shower bay is silent save for the pattering of water striking the steely floor, as every other stall is empty. Forbidden, it must be, to view a breeder that is not yours.

I even have two guards now.  They stand outside the showers now, impatiently waiting to finish. My guards carry guns, but I know not whether they are for keeping out or keeping in.

I kneel upon the floor of the showers and let the freezing water strike and sting my now bony back, wash over the crown of my head and down my face. It is not at all gentle and feels like knives across my skin. But I spend as much time as I can here, feeling the cleansing waters strip away the sweat and the filth, to let it wash away the tears I am free to shed here.

A rap of a hand on the door signals that I am done. I stand and turn off the water, letting myself drip, feeling the draft ever-present on the Prydwen caress me into goosebumps and gentle shivering. I read once in a medical journal that the cold is good for the health, for strength.

I need all I can get.

Another rap on the door means come quickly. I dress as ordered into my underthings and then my oversized scribe’s robe, now nondescript and without the giant reading lens. I slap on my pip-boy and run my hands through my hair. Not enough time to brush it. I come to the door and exit wordlessly, and my guards wordlessly escort me to my next destination. Knights and scribes wordlessly part and wordlessly watch me pass with curious, wondering eyes. Their eyes on me — no, not me.

Their eyes linger lower so their gaze does not meet mine.  I know they look at my emaciated, flat stomach, despite their averted gazes.  Disappointment lines their faces as they move on with their business. They expect and they wait ever so impatiently for the coming of someone new.  I, alone, am unworthy of attention.

We stop before Knight-Captain Cade’s office, and the guards take their places on either side of the door. I am ushered forward with the wave of a rifle and a nod of the head, and I enter.

Cade addresses me cheerfully, beckoning me towards a bed surrounded by curtains. Wordlessly I approach, wordlessly I lay. Or is it lie? I cannot remember which is the active and which is the passive. What I do must be passive, as I am a robot. A machine. A machine meant to produce more little robots for the great war machine.

I am here for a check-up, a tune-up. This machine is mindless, ever wordless as I am poked and prodded, checked and scanned. The machine within me needs to work harder, says my mechanic with a dry laugh as he examines my inner workings. He does not say that, really, but it helps to think he did. He continues, telling me then it is still functioning properly and is ready to work. He does say that.

Ready to work.

I furrow my brow, confused, and to my surprise he answers immediately.

The Elder asked for you.

I say nothing more for the lump now in my throat. I merely sit up when he finishes his examination, dressing quickly. He politely averts his eyes despite everything. He sits leisurely on the corner of his desk, humming quietly along to the cheery croon of Doris Day.

You should listen to her, you know, says Cade, briefly pointing at my Pip-Boy, it’s ever-present radio playing softly. Que sera, sera. Whatever will be will be. Accept it, embrace it, make the situation yours — whatever it is. It’ll be better this way.

Bullshit, I say to myself, wordlessly. I say nothing, I do nothing. I will not give them what they want, not anymore. Not after what they’ve done to me.

Anyway. He claps his hands together, gesturing to the door that I am free to leave. I step to the door, and Cade calls out to me. Have a happy Valentine’s Day!

Yes, that is right. It is February. It has been over three months since I unwittingly sold myself into slavery. Twenty-three days since I tried to escape. Ten since DCR began to play more and more sickeningly sweet songs, infuriating in their taunting brightness. Seven since the expedition team had been declared lost, and five since the Elder began to summon me to his chambers.

Valentine’s Day. I think of Nick, of Kellogg. I would prefer them to the monster I go to see now.

I am brought to the Elder’s door. Knock, knock, knock. Come in. I am ushered in. I am pushed gently into a chair. I hear the gentle click of the door as I am left alone with the Elder. I do not look at the Elder or at the door. Instead I stare at the table, at the lavish meal he has once again set before me. I let my dark and dripping hair veil my face. I say nothing, do nothing.

Not hungry?

I look up from the meal set before me and to the man across from me. The Elder has taken a particular interest in me since the departure of the expedition team into the Glowing Sea. This is not the first time I have been called to his quarters for dinner and to talk. Each time the food is richer, more enticing, and each time I do not eat. This time it is spiced Brahmin steak and a hearty helping of instamash and butter. Butter, an incredible luxury these days.

I clasp my hands in my lap, my utensils untouched. Not once have I touched them. I will endure.  
  
The Elder lets out a frustrated sigh. How long, exactly, do you intend to keep this up?

… I’m not hungry.

Of course you’re hungry, don’t lie to me. You haven’t eaten in days. He slices a hearty chunk off of his steak. Blood and juices seep out of the precious meat. The smell of it is intoxicating, and I find myself staring. I will myself to avert my gaze, and to stop my stomach from rumbling. He continues after chewing slowly and carefully on his steak, likely savoring every bit of it. The silence is long and arduous, and I feel his eyes upon me. He does not speak until after he has swallowed and lets out a contented sigh. A challenge. A threat. Eat and enjoy what I have given you, it says. Or you’ll go even longer without food.

At my silence, he begins cutting into his steak again. Tell me, Sol, do you enjoy lying to me?

I look to him, confused.

Each time I’ve invited you to dinner, you say you aren’t hungry. Yet I know you turn away nearly every meal brought to your room. Are you mourning your intended, perhaps?

My intended. Oh, how I hated the word. The Paladin I had chosen to be a slave to, yes. Because despite his betrayal, he was the closest thing I had to a friend. He would treat me better than the rest of the monsters in this Brotherhood, this I knew. I could survive him. Yes, even if my skin crawled now at his touch, and after seeing that he never tried to. He had no love for me nor I for him. Nor would there ever be, not after what had happened.

I remember his hands on me, hurting me as he herded me back to the Elder from the flight deck. I had told him, after I had been forced into a choice, into choosing him, that I would kill him if he touched me ever again. So he did not. I lived now in his quarters, I on the bed and he had been on the floor. I felt no remorse in this arrangement, and the Paladin did not say anything against it. I did not want to look at him, this man who knew full well what would happen when he welcomed me into the Brotherhood. He had to have known. And when it had finally come to light, he hadn’t stopped it. I began to hate him.

So much so I had not seen him off when he went to the Glowing Sea.

Now, twenty-three days later, he and the rest of his team are thought dead. Radios at the forward outpost have been silent. Their supply of serum had run out and the Sea had been more treacherous that previously expected. After all, one knight had already been lost to radscorpions before all communication had ceased. Whether it was from the ambient radiation scrambling the signal or simply the team’s sudden demise, no one knew. But after the expected return date had come and gone, most if not all assumed the latter.

In a way, perhaps I am mourning him. Or rather, I am regretting not telling the Paladin goodbye. I look down to the hands in my lap and remember the feeling of the tiny mitt he had given me. He is, was, not a bad man, the Paladin. But his devotion to his cause, to the Brotherhood, blinded him to all else. Even me, who was his friend. I was another resource to be exploited for the Brotherhood, or rather, what was between my legs. He had known that as soon as the first time I met him, with Preston. Undoubtedly. Yet he had treated me as an equal instead of using me outright.

Despite his betrayal, for which I do not think I can ever truly forgive him, he is the closest thing to a friend I still had.

And now, now he’s gone.

My silence is telling.

The Elder leans back in his chair, tossing his utensils upon the table with a clatter. He is angry. He has been ever since I threw a chair at him, I imagine. I like to think it has been ever since I picked a wastelander Paladin over him, but that is simply wishful thinking. He is something larger, the leader of something more powerful than I could ever hope to defeat. In our quiet dinners he makes sure of displaying that, whether its the relatively lavish feasts set out for two or the mighty weaponry mounted on the wall, just out of reach. Through the easy, suggestive splaying out of his legs and arms, leaving himself more than open for another chair or the thrust of a fork or a knife to his more vulnerable parts.

I have imagined myself on more than one occasion driving the knife on the table into his stomach, or his eye perhaps, and making a run for it. But we both know he’d either overpower me in an instant, or if I did manage such a feat, I wouldn’t even make it out the door before my guards were upon me. So instead I sit quietly, silently. It is a small victory over my unconquerable captor, my refusal of him. Of the gifts he gives me. The outright dismissal of the looks he gives me. Spurning him, again and again, it gives me pleasure, I am not ashamed to say. What little power I still hold over myself and the Brotherhood is intoxicating. To deny a man who has never been denied anything, oh, is that ever a good feeling.

And so it is with every gesture, every step, every careful glance I say I am no slave, nor will I ever be.

My silence is anything but silent, and what it says makes the man before me bristle.

I suppose that was another lie, then, he says, carefully restraining his growing frustration. You and the Paladin.

I look up at him.

His gaze finds mine. He rests his head upon his fist, narrowing his steely gray eyes at me as he continues. You chose him, a lowly field officer, over every other officer aboard. Other officers could have provided so much more for you. Proctor Quinlan even voiced to me that he had a particular interest in you. Why choose Danse, then, if you did not love him?

What a question. Or statement, rather. I do not grace the man with an answer… and I try desperately to shake the idea of servicing Quinlan from my mind.

Huh. So be it. Mourn the man. He was a good man, for a wastelander. He speaks of the death of the loyal Paladin — his supposed friend — easily, almost horrifically so. He continues. A good soldier in bringing you to us, as infuriating as you may be. But this is getting out of hand, and I am at the end of my patience. Your intended is dead, scribe. The Knight-Captain assures me that you are fit to be reassigned.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. Reassigned, as if letting myself be violated by some soldier again and again for the off-chance I pop out another one — as if it’s as simple as being reassigned. Perhaps in this monstrous reality, it is as simple as that. My father had even tried to do something similar in an age gone by, when I had dumped Matty. Reassigned. I am not a person, I am a resource to be reassigned. To pop out soldiers for some other soldier until I’m bled dry like the rest of this godforsaken world.

Elder, I say quietly, my hands still carefully cradled in my lap to keep them from grasping for the man’s throat, with all due respect, we don’t yet know if the expedition has failed.

It’s been days since their expected return date. There has been no communique or sign that they’re even still alive. Vertibird flyovers we can even do have revealed no sign of the team. They’re lost, scribe, whether you like it or not. It is time for you to be reassigned. He picks up his utensils once more and cuts slowly, carefully. Deliberately.

So… I have to choose again.

No. It was a mistake to give you a choice in the first place. Especially so after your… episode. He looks up to me then, pointing his bloody knife at his brow. It is broken there, where the chair I had thrown at him had hit him. The stitches are gone, but a small scar would remain. A remarkably pathetic one when compared to the one sustained from a deathclaw. A badge of shame, forever.

He continues. I should have expected such a reaction, and such a choice, after seeing how close you and the Paladin were. Under normal circumstances this would never be allowed. But, then again, you are certainly not normal, are you?

This would never be allowed, he says? What, treating me like a human being? I adjust myself in my seat, which has grown increasingly uncomfortable. His gaze feels like daggers upon me. If I move, if I dare displease him, they will plunge into me. If I dare run, the knights at the door would simply usher me right back in, for I am not a human. I am an animal, a thing. Trapped. He sits there, leisurely chewing at a piece of meat, staring at me.

Not normal, no, none of this could ever be normal.

But back to normality we must return, Sol, says he, roughly wiping a kerchief against his mouth. I am considering making arrangements to have you transported to the Citadel. There you will be properly trained into your duties with others of your station, after which you will be given to Star Paladin Henry Casdin, who commands the Citadel in my absence. Know that I am not an unforgiving man, and this assignment will be good for you. You will be treated well by him should you provide him with a child, and will be allowed to return to your duties as a scribe upon a healthy birth.

My hands are shaking in my lap and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep them there. I hear myself speak.

The Citadel? That’s, that’s so far away. And this man, Casdin? What? What about my son!

He waves a hand dismissively. I want to slice that damn hand off, god damn him. He continues speaking as easily and nonchalantly as if he were discussing the Sunday paper over a cup of coffee. Your son will be raised as a squire and will be given the same privileges a child born into the Brotherhood would have. He will remain upon the Prydwen until the successful completion of our mission here in Commonwealth. You will be safe and provided for in the Citadel until our return, I assure you. Casdin is a model soldier, and a good man. He will treat you well, should you provide him the proper respect.

A good man. A good man, ha, that’s rich. In this world, this dessicated corpse of a world long dead, was there such a thing as a good man anymore? A good anyone? I can only stare dumbstruck at the amazing callousness with which the Elder has dictated my fate, my sale to some man hundreds of miles away whom I have never seen. Did he even realize what he was saying? Did he even care? I clench and unclench my fists upon my robes, trying to calm myself. Nothing would come from getting angry. Nothing good, anyway.

I try to steady my breathing. Calm, calm, please stay calm. I need information. I need to stay here on the Prydwen, as much as I hate it. I need to find some way I can still save Shaun.

Elder. I swallow a growing lump in my throat. It feels like tacks and nails, hard and scratchy and cold. Dread. When am I to leave?

It would be soon, quite soon. A troop transport will be arriving from the Citadel by sea in a few days time. You would be returning with them.

By sea. I exhale deeply, trying to mask a defeated sigh. There is no running, no escape, by sea. That is, unless I prefer drowning. Which I don’t. For a brief moment I imagine life in the Citadel, lashed and bound to some faceless officer twice my age, bloated and pregnant with some horrible irradiated monster inside of me. Growing and gnawing at my insides. A ghoul, perhaps. A child fit for the wasteland it will be brought into. And another, then another. I see myself withering away slowly, and tossed aside once I become barren. I see myself dying, cold and alone, being eaten alive by my horrific spawn.

Oh, god. I can’t. I need to — I need to just find Shaun. I need to find Shaun and then I can run far, far away from here.

I swallow my fear. I need more information if I’m to plan anything.

… Alright, I say, can you tell me about this, this Henry Casdin, Elder?

He arches a inquisitive brow at my evident submission, or perhaps at the distinct lack of furniture projectiles being thrown at him. At seeing that he was not mistaken, he clears his throat and re-assumes his careful, dignified poise. He leans back in his chair and lounges comfortably, his giant legs splayed out beneath the table. He is a large man, a powerful man, despite his youth. His posture screams that, and from it he gloats that I am no match for him, that I never was. That he would always win eventually. He always does.

Let him think that.

I bow my head and take the knife and fork in my hand, beginning to delicately cut away at the steak before me. It had long since grown cold. I hear the Elder speak, his intense voice unmistakably smug.

Fair enough, scribe. Casdin is a good man, one of our best. He was instrumental in the reformation and union of our order, and has been an inspiration to us all. He is also from one of our best families within the Brotherhood in our Western chapter. I am not an unforgiving man, so know that I have given you quite the honor in serving him. I would suggest upon meeting him you treat him with the dignity and respect befitting him.

I will do my best to grant him the same respect that I give you, Elder.

The Elder furrows his brow a bit at that, but seems satisfied at my newfound submission. He continues speaking, talking of Outcasts and the Lyons, of what would be expected of me at the Citadel. I do not really listen. I turn my face upwards and force a small, resigned smile at him as he speaks, nodding when it is needed. I stop cutting at my steak and set my hands in my lap, carefully concealing the knife in my pocket. A last resort, if needed, and only if I can get close enough.

I continue listening. Yes, Elder. No, Elder. He seems at ease with my presence.

Good.

Are there many like me at the Citadel, Elder?

A few, yes. Fertility is a rare and very precious resource, and must be protected and carefully guarded from the folly of man. Wasteland women who are fertile are given a compound at the Citadel. Food, clean water and shelter are provided. More than anything they could have scrounged up in the wasteland, certainly. You will be happy there, or at least, likely happier than you are here. He looks at me then and gestures to my plate, food hardly touched.

Shit. The knife, I can’t let him know I have it. Shit, shit, think of something! Anything! I speak, perhaps, a bit too quickly.

What makes you think I’d be happy there?

Ah, impudent as always, he laughs a bit at that, shaking his head in disbelief. Sol, I’ll have you know you are the most disrespectful, dishonest and most downright infuriating person I’ve ever met. No one has ever spoken to me as you do. I’m not sure whether to chalk it up to strength of character or a blatant disregard for your own wellbeing — but still, you speak to me like this. I don’t know whether to respect you or reprimand you. And as for your happiness, well. I’m afraid that’s not a priority right now. We must all do our duties if mankind is to survive, as you know.

My hands fall back into my lap. My fingers curl around the handle of the knife, and I fight every feral urge to drive it into his hateful face. Last resort, last resort I tell myself. But fury burns within me like a wildfire, raging through my veins and dancing across my skin. I cannot hide my shaking, my indignation, and it is certainly not lost upon the Elder. If anything, it seems to almost be goading him on. He thoughtfully strokes his beard, the smallest of smirks upon his lips. In his eyes flashes a challenge. Go on, it says, try and fight this.

It is through gritted teeth that I speak again. You… you stated that you are only considering this, this arrangement. Does that imply you have something else in mind?

It is several moments before he provides me with a reply, but his answer is suddenly plain even in his silence. Or, perhaps, because of it. In the easy slouch of his body, the spread of his massive legs, the set of his jaw as he ponders what words to grant me. In another lifetime I might have thought him a very handsome man, certainly someone I may have pursued in my wild college days. Exciting, insatiable, and dangerously sexy. But that was in a world long gone, a world the Elder had never and would never know. Now I see only what he is. A young warlord who knows nothing but war, all too aware of his power over his soldiers and his charges, and a man who will take what he wants by any means necessary.

The memory of his coat upon my shoulders, hanging heavy like an anchor, had been a claim upon me. I am certain of it now. I see it in his eyes, his impatience. In his body, his need. His desire.

I clutch the knife harder.

Indeed I do, he says at long last, standing slowly. I’ve entertained the idea for some time. You may be the most aggravating woman I have ever met, but I cannot deny that you… intrigue me. Many wastelander savages have done the unthinkable to win a position such as yours, let alone gain the opportunity to serve the Elder himself. Yet you, you do the opposite. You aren’t like the others. You’re not at all like them. You’re better. Smarter. Dignified. Yet again and again I’ve tried to figure you out and still, I cannot. I want to know you, Sol.

He shrugs off his armored battlecoat, revealing that tight black uniform that leaves ever so little to the imagination. Before the war, he would have been an Adonis. Godlike muscle and physique with the infinite vigor and vitality of youth, all framed in a gleaming black against the harsh fluorescents. Shiny and polished and terrifying as the depths of Hades, like some ancient statue come to life. Does he know of the ancient gods, this veritable god among men? Rather, this man who thinks himself a god?

But he is no god. He is a man, and can be struck down like any other. Kill him, says the horrible monster inside of me, that tiny shred of Kellogg that remains, kill the bastard!

The Elder skirts around the table, stepping ever closer to me. He bends down, his face ever so close to mine. Mere inches. This dragon of a man, I feel his breath. I can smell him. If I lean forward a few scant inches, I could taste him, as much as the idea sickens me. My brain screams for me to wait it out, wait out his Citadel bluff and wait and endure. My heart, withered and starved for touch, for affection, for anything —- longs for this horrible beast before me to take me where I am. To lean forward and return everything he wants, just to fill that void that has become me with something, anything.

Let him ravish me, this dragon, relish in it, says the dark thing inside me, then slit his throat in his sleep.

I do not move, however, and keep my hand carefully concealed in my pocket. Last resort, last resort.

He continues. You’re the healthiest woman in existence, and I the last of the Maxsons. It’d be a shame to send you off to the Citadel, to be squandered on some other paladin, when you would be best suited here.

I inhale deeply, trying to summon my strength. Oh, God, please be with me in this trying time. I look up into his eyes, steely gray with the barest flecks of brown — lined with a determination and experience unfitting of a man his age. It is the very definition of intimidating, those eyes, that heated gaze. My heart is racing. But I do not back down.

Then why hesitate? Why mention sending me off to the Citadel if you want me here?

He smiles a bit at that. It is the devil’s own smile, surely.

Well, for one, you’re a very dangerous woman. A substantial risk. You’re intelligent, though far too much for your own good, it would seem. He pauses for a moment, looking down at my body, to my thighs. I cross my legs, suddenly self-conscious. Even beneath these frumpy scribe’s robes I am stripped naked beneath this gaze. My wet hair has soaked through parts of my robes and clings to my collarbones, to the curve of my back. The barest of womanly shapes, the erotica of water, I see it reflected in the Elder’s eyes. He chuckles a bit at my show of modesty, or perhaps my unwillingness to submit to his wishes, or perhaps the utter futility of it all. He turns his gaze once more to my own.

Not to mention, says he with a wry and knowing grin, the knife you have stashed away in those robes.

Oh, fuck.

My breath is caught in my throat. I can’t move. No, this couldn’t be, it couldn’t be happening. Please, don’t let it be so.

He does not move either, instead keeping his steady gaze locked upon me, inches from me. The knife does not deter him, no, the very idea of it seems to bring him ever closer. The danger I pose, dare I say, it excites him. He does not reach for my hand, for the weapon, and instead simply extends a waiting hand. His lips graze my ear, his beard brushing against it to send an unwilling shiver down my spine. I let out a small gasp and try to bite it back, but it is too late. His voice is a low growl.

Let me illustrate this for you, Scribe Sol, so you can get a clear picture of what is going to happen if you ever want to see your son again. You are going to give me that knife, and then you are going to do what I say, when I say it. You will give me the respect I am due, and you will perform your duties without question. Is that clear?

My hand lingers on my knife. It is my one chance at freeing myself from this, from striking this monster before me down. Wipe out the Maxson line forever. To stick it to the Brotherhood who has enslaved me. Oh, how I want to kill the man before me, how the terror inside of me screams for it. Oh how I hate him. I hate him with the fury of a thousand burning suns, and more than anything I want to do to him what I could not even to the murderer of my husband. I want him dead. The monster inside of me demands it.

But what about Shaun? I can’t just leave him. Shaun, my baby boy, I can’t — Oh, Nate, please forgive me.

I bite down hard on my lip to stave off the tears as I slowly place the knife in Maxson’s outstretched palm. With a heavy heart I know that it is not just the knife I place upon it, but my very freedom. My pride, my honor, my dignity.

Good, he says, and adjusts the blade in his hands. He suddenly drives it through the plastic table beside us with a heavy thunk. With a wrench of his hand, it breaks at the handle. I bite back a yelp.

He lets out a low and rumbling laugh at that, a lion’s lazy roar after playing with its prey. I feel the rumble of him in my chest, in my bones, in my very core. I belong to the Brotherhood, to the Elder now. I am a belonging, bent to the will of he who commands me. This commander looks at me now with eyes filled with burning fire, his hands slowly reaching up to my face.

I stand there, helpless, as he touches me for the first time. His hands are cold as the steel he represents, and large enough to crush me if he so desired. His fingers are rough and calloused, lined with scars of so many battles fought and hard won. I feel this and all as they run from cheek to brow to my hair. He runs a hand through it, through the wet and through the wild curls beginning to tangle. He reeks of whiskey.

Are you trying to get sick? Running around in wet hair, wet clothes. He withdraws his hand and wipes it on the front of my robes. He crosses his arms and looks me over, at my hair, my face, my robes. Take off those wet things before you catch cold. Let's just get this over with.

I look at my robes, then to the Elder. Surely he can’t mean right now. When I get back to my room, surely—

Well?

I blink back my shock at his request, no, his demand. I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, as if to hide myself from his gaze, from such thoughts. But… no. I must do this, mustn’t I? I am a belonging, a robot to do what I am told. I unfold my arms slowly, hesitantly, as the muscles do not want to move.

I reach back to undo the fastenings, slowly, partly as one last act of vengeance upon the Elder, partly to give me time to accept the situation. But I am too slow, it would seem, as the Elder takes my robe from the collar and rips it with the ease of tissue paper.

Again I yelp, holding the shredded remains of my only robe to my body and staring in horror at the brute before me. A god this man was not, but surely a demon, a devil, a monster to torment me for my unwanted feelings of lust and desire. He shakes his head at my last attempt at clinging to my dignity, and gestures with a wave of a finger to drop it. Whether he meant my robe or my dignity, holding back tears I let both fall to the floor. I stand before him in nothing but my underthings, and I am unable not to see what his flight suit does little to hide. He speaks.

To the bed.

I swallow my tears, and fighting tears with each step I make my way to the Elder’s spartan bed, stopping at the foot of it. Mentally preparing myself for what was about to happen. I can do this for—

Suddenly, I am forced forward onto the mattress, bent at the waist. A hand holds me, pinned, large, rough fingers entangling themselves in my wet hair.  He shoves himself into me, taking me right then and there, pinning me to the bed.

I let out a yelp of surprise, of pain, my hands grasping the blankets beneath me tightly as I hold back the tears, the screaming. In my most horrible of nightmares I could never have imagined such a thing happening to me. To be trapped in this horrible reality, to be breeding stock for a brotherhood of monsters.

But I do not fight it, I cannot. I bury my face in the blankets, feel it burn my cheek as I am pushed back and forth by his fucking, and wait for it to end. It is all I can do.

… this is for Shaun, I tell myself through the tears and the terror, this is for Shaun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long absence -- military obligations got in the way of writing. But now I'm in some downtime but possibly gearing up for deployment, but have no other significant obligations other than monthly stuff now. This and two other stories are fully outlined and just ready to be fleshed out (the hard part!). I'll try to get them up and published as quick as I can. Woo!
> 
> Glad to be back and writing, ad victoriam!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think in the comments should you feel like it, and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> You can follow my writing progress, motivation and inspiration at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pesky one to write. Three drafts and three scenarios I didn't quite like, so I blended two to make a longer chapter and get the story flowing again. Thank you all for sticking with the story and with my awful writing habits! Enjoy!

On Wednesdays we have bible studies. It is long before the war, before the bombs fell. We are in Boston, at the Catholic church I had attended since my birth here in America. Boston, in the months I have been absent, seemed suddenly stifling and cramped. While my friends of the Family urged me along, I wished for my friendly neighbors and wide open spaces of the suburbs. The city was an unfriendly and unforgiving place. Despite the shining smiles of painted lips and eyes, I feel the same from them.

We women stand outside the church in a gaggle, like birds. If a young boy came to chase us away, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the women flapped their colored capes and jackets and flew away, cawing out in alarm. Like birds of paradise these women are dressed, in garish yellows and greens and pinks, dressed not for worship or the eyes of the Lord as they are so careful to preach, but to appease the eyes of one another. It is a show, this event, and I have been invited to watch. At one point, I had been an eager performer.

I place a hand on my swollen belly and feel the baby kick. It does not like being here either. I shuffle in my flats and smooth out my tent-like dress. I had come on the invitation of a woman by the name of Carlotta. She is Matty’s sister and has been my best friend for as along as I can remember. At least until I met Nate, anyway. It had changed considerably after that.

Moreso when they found her dead beside my father in an alleyway dumpster, the blood from a bullet to the neck staining my mother’s mink coat. But I do not want to talk that now. I am at a church, after all. Or, will be. Or already was? My memory is fuzzy from this time, either the cryo or how angry I always was. How hurt.

Anyway, I don’t like Carlotta.

Just a few hours before she had pulled up to my house in Sanctuary in her little cherry red Zip, sporty and fun she called it. Wide windowed and allowing all who passed to see and admire her, more like. Stepped out delicately as always, stilettoed foot after stilettoed foot like a wolf on the hunt as she sauntered up to my front door.

The Rosa boy had answered the door on the third ring of the doorbell, I’m coming, I’m coming in his usual snippy way.  The book I had loaned him, Swann's Way I think it was, was tucked under his arm dog-eared and worn from his reading.  The matchstick between his teeth had been worn from his chewing as I had confiscated his cigarettes the day before.  He was snippier than ever he had been, especially now that his reading was interrupted, but he had warmed up real quick to Miss Carlotta Sacco.

Carlotta was showy as always, dressed in blazing reds and black lace, her bleached blonde hair pulled back and pinned prettily like in all the magazines. Blue eyes, big and doelike and ringed in the blackest liner and mascara, fluttered curiously and none too modestly at my teenage charge. A little more skin and she was something out of a spank mag, and poor Luis was no match for her. He had welcomed her in hurriedly, despite my whispered protests.

Oh, honey, she had said, pursing those candy apple lips, you just must come to church. We girls have not seen you in ages and you just must attend.

I had refused at first. I knew their tricks, I knew what they thought of me. Wife of a potato eater, mother of a mongrel, I had heard it all. Now that Nate was off to war in Alaska, there was no one left to chase them off the lawn.

When she had insisted, Luis had joined her.

You haven’t been out of the house since Nate left, they said, you need to get out and do something. It isn’t healthy. You must, you must, you must!

And so I have been herded to the church, the pregnant plus one to a succubus. It is some time before each of these dolled up women arrive, and it is a slow and meandering procession to the church basement. As we step slowly, chittering to each other, it sounds almost like the squeaking of un-oiled wheels in their lilting, artificially high voices. These women are like parade floats. How long have they spent decorating themselves, perfecting their manner and their movements so precisely? For what purpose do these woman-floats, slowly moving and rotating, chittering to one another and broken wheels for all to see and admire, parade themselves? Why did I?

It feels like an eternity before the basement is finally reached and the conversations to end before we finally crack open a bible. Carlotta coughs as a cloud of dust rises up from the musty pages. She shifts uncomfortably in her tight dress upon a plastic folding chair. We are arranged in an oval shape, with Carlotta on one end and I at the other. The other women look back and forth, whispering to one another beneath their breath as they slowly open their own dusty, borrowed books.

It would seem the Bible is not usually the subject of these gatherings. And looking to Carlotta, frantically and confusedly flipping through its contents for a passage, perhaps this is the first time it will be. My heart is a little at ease at that. Perhaps they do mean well, and will attempt in their own fumbling way to comfort me in my time of need. I smile gently at the other women and open the only bible I had had in my home, Nate’s old family bible. He treasured the thing. He wasn’t a saint, not by any means, but at least he tried to strive to meet his Protestant standards. Honesty, integrity, hard work.

My family, as well as my Family, as staunchly Catholic as they claimed to be — they were laughable, really. Piety nor the virtues it promised did not suit them, though they tried to make it. It did not suit me, and only habit kept me praying and attending service. These detestable women with their detestable lives and detestable husbands — their world is detestable. A world of blatant hypocrisy. I left it for a reason.

Though what lay in my lap was a Protestant book, it should do well enough. The women around me, these birds of paradise flaunting their bright colors and feathers, were by no means women of faith. I doubted they would even notice.

Carlotta delicately clears her throat and dons her fashionable horn-rimmed glasses, glossy black and edged with shining rhinestones. Together with her dark eyeliner, she looks like a bejeweled raccoon. I try not to laugh at the image as I politely listen to what she has to say. Ahem, ladies! Ladies. If you would, we will be, ah, continuing our series on women in the bible. As women, we must find strength in those who came before us and found love and acceptance in God’s eyes, as you of course know. So, if you would, please turn to, ah… 2 Samuel, chapter eleven.

She reads the story of King David, or more accurately, of the woman Bathsheba. Of him seeing her bathing upon the roof, raping her, and repeatedly attempting to trick her husband Uriah to convince him that the child in his wife is his. When Uriah is too loyal to his king to take the bait, he is sent to where the fighting is hardest and is killed. And, wasting no time whatsoever, David takes Bathsheba as his wife.

And, says Carlotta as she closes her bible, the thing that she had done displeased the Lord.

Wait, I say, looking back over my own copy, it doesn’t say that. It says what David had done. Not she.

The woman shrugs, looking to my bible and then back to me. A smile slowly spreads across those lips as red as sin, and she lets out a small laugh. Perhaps the Protestant version is different, honey. I do believe I read the word she in mine.

Murmurings rise from around the room, each woman nodding in agreement with Carlotta. I look over my own copy. David. It says right there, five letters. David. No fault, no blame is attributed to Bathsheba. Not here and not in subsequent verses or even chapters. A she can’t be right. I glance over to the woman beside me who is nodding like one of those little toy dipping birds at Carlotta. She had turned quickly to Samuel, perhaps she knew—

Wait.

Her bible is opened to Habakkuk.

I feel my jaw clench. But I say nothing, instead closing my bible and looking to Carlotta for whatever supposed guidance she has for us. I make sure to show her that my patience is spent.

Her blue eyes flick up to meet mine and her smile broadens, showcasing pearly white teeth. She does not usually smile with her teeth, on the account of the horrible snaggletooth like a vampire’s fang on the right side. I know then the mistake is intentional. They all are in on it, though their aim is unknown. I cross my arms over my pregnant belly and raise a brow, curious. What new insult could these bird-brained women have in store for me?

So, ladies. King David was favored by God, made king, to lead his chosen people. He is one of the most important and powerful men in the bible! But how on earth, ladies, could he have done such an evil thing to a woman promised to the faithful Uriah?

She seduced him! Why else would she be bathing on a rooftop?

She was a temptress, sent by the devil to tempt the king! Poor Uriah, married to such an unfaithful and horrible woman. Why else would God punish her by killing her baby?

They chitter and twitter about, cawing out their insults at a woman long dead, or perhaps never existed, as if she had just left the room. Incurable gossips, the lot of them. I feel myself rolling my eyes.

Yes, yes, she just was a piece of work, wasn’t she? Carlotta nods and quickly clasps the hands of the women on either side of her. Each woman takes the hand of another down the line until reaching me. Before I can take a hand, mine are grabbed and held tightly. Almost painfully. I shake away my worry and close my eyes, bowing my head for whatever bastardized prayer is to come.

Just get it over with already.

Dear Lord in heaven, forgive us sinners for our trespasses, and forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil. Protect us from those temptresses and trespassers, protect us from the Batheshebas who walk among us, protect those Uriahs like my brother who were foolish enough to love them—

Oh, for heaven’s sake! I try to stand, but the hands hold mine firmly. I let out a deliberately audible sigh and return the tight squeeze of hands. Perhaps a bit harder for good measure.

— and please, please, please forgive those temptresses and seductresses, for they are misguided and know not what they do. We pray now for the safety of any baby that might be born to them, conceived out of wedlock and outside the protecting arms of the holy Catholic church. A baby is an innocent thing, unaccountable for the sins of its mother. Forgive it, and do not visit your wrath upon it. And so we pray, O Lord, amen.

Amen, amen, amen, amen. A chorus of petty hatred and hateful wishes, it rings in my ears like a swarm of hornets. Perhaps a murder of crows, carrion birds set on picking me and my unborn child apart for imagined slights against them.

To say that I am outraged is a wild understatement.

Hands are released and the women quickly cross themselves despite their malice, hiding their tiny, self-satisfied giggles behind gloved hands. I can only glare at them, throwing their hands away from me like the poisonous things they are. I stand and gather my things, moving to leave.

Oh, honey, what’s the matter? Leaving so soon? Carlotta does not move from her folding plastic throne, but calls after me as if she still cares that I remain.

I turn to her, and whether its the hormones or the insult of it all or everything just coming to a sudden point, I yell at her. What was that? A prayer, you called it? It was a slap to the fucking face was what it is. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.

Carlotta feigns confusion. I still see the laughter in her eyes, the bitch. Oh, you didn’t think the prayer was for you, was it? I don’t see why, that is, unless you have a reason for thinking so. You didn’t actually do any of these horrible things, did you, honey?

Then, a knock on the door.

I don’t remember this.

I look back to the door, but it isn’t a door. I’m no longer in a dress, I’m in a blue vault suit, my hands frozen before me. Glass fogged and frozen, hard to see. But I don’t have to to know.

Kellogg sneers at me, his .44 still smoking from blowing out Nate’s brains. He doesn’t say what I remember him saying. I hear his voice in my head, like I have for weeks now, as if it is my own.

He raps his knuckles on the frozen glass. Knock, knock.

Are you really as innocent as you think you are?

I turn away, but I can’t, I’m in the pod again. Trapped again. It is so cold. I can’t move. My veins are on fire, a cold fire, and they feel like they’re exploding inside of me. I can’t breathe.

Then, Shaun. Not my baby, no, but the grown boy that Kellogg knew. Ten years gone. His hair is dark like mine, curling at the tips wild and free. His eyes are Nate’s, though, as is his smile. A tooth is missing. As I look at him my body aches, every inch of it, my womb, my heart, my breasts. My short-lived motherhood, stolen from me, made manifest in the sight of a boy I’ve never truly seen.

I cry for him, I beg for him, I pound against the glass with all my might — as little as it is — begging him to see me. He peers at me from behind the glass like a child at a zoo of exotic animals, as if I am a gorilla. And in that fascinated gaze there is also fear. Transfixed fear of this gorilla behind the glass, throwing itself against the glass until it bleeds, past that point, to get at the other side. He steps back, shrinking in on himself, and begins to cry.

Who are you?!

I wake up.

I feel a small amount of relief to remember that I am on the Prydwen, sleeping in my room, and that Carlotta and all her harpies were all dead long ago. That Kellogg is dead.

But, just like the rest of the world, that feeling of relief dies when I remember that Shaun is gone and I am on the Prydwen. My prison for what feels like an eternity.

When was the last time I saw the sky? The same sky Shaun must be looking up at, he is somewhere under that sky. I need to be there, under it, too, to know that we are not that far part, that he is not so completely lost to me —-

I want to cry. I need to.

A knock sounds at the door, a woman’s voice asking if I’m awake. The guards must have changed.

I remember now. After he had laid claim to me, which is perhaps the best I can phrase such an act and the manner in which it had been done, the Elder had requested to see me first thing in the morning. To discuss.

Though what we would discuss was beyond me. What more was there to discuss that I was a slave, he was my master, and that I had no say in the matter? To discuss would be to simply put it into pretty, more palatable terms. I remember his hunger, his anger, the hungry roughness in which he had taken me. I remember also his careful smile and the lending of a coat, though the memory is quickly tainted by the weight of further meaning. He does not see himself a monster, that I can see, and has his mind firmly set into the idea that what is now between us is strictly business.

I almost snort at that. Business. As if we were two corporate drones, two suits, exchanging phone numbers and how do you dos before bargaining one another’s freedoms. Each other’s bodies. No, just mine. Would payment in advance do, Mister Maxson? Why yes, of course it would. Your son will be given to you in due time, I assure you. Why, thank you, Mister Maxson, that suits me quite nicely.

Let’s get on with it, shall we?

The stupid fantasy is gone, this gentle euphemism utterly obliterated by a cruel and all too present reality. His words haunt me. A business transaction, that is what I am. A thing to be taken and used. Does he even see me as a person? Has he ever?

Though, looking back on the world before, was it so different?

I shout past the door to my guards that I will be out in a moment, and don my — I pick up my torn scribe’s robes, now unwearable unless I wanted to flash my breasts at every passing knight. I run my thumb along the torn seams and the missing buttons.

Instead, I stick my spindly limbs into my vaultsuit and zip up the front. I have not worn this in weeks, if not months. It feels three sizes too big for me, and looking down at it I have forgotten how much the wasteland had taken it’s toll on me. I have lost weight from the running, from the adrenaline, from the starvation. Even here on the Prydwen I had been unable to gain weight. Cade was getting concerned, and looking at the baggy suit that was once snug if not skin-tight, I begin to share his worry.

I pin up my hair, slicking it back with some pomade that used to belong to Danse. I suppose it is mine now, now that he is dead. The tin, stamped across the top, is written: Lucky’s. The other words have flaked off or were worn away by oils or repeated use, either way they are gone. All that remains, in curving green script atop eggshell white, is the taunting word “lucky”.

I think of luck, Luck of the Irish they used to say. Nate was Irish, though he was just about the luckiest bastard in Boston, as he used to say. Lucky enough to be drafted and lose his leg and his very mind. The Paladin was similarly lucky in this regard. Though he had been lucky enough to lose his life and get it all over and done with, I suppose. No suffering in a world he no longer knew, bound to a family who feared him. A dead man come back, a walking corpse. No, the Paladin was lucky to find peace. He is dead. I wonder, absently, if he had been Irish, too.

Curious, I touch my gelled fingers to my nose. The pomade, somehow, still smells of pine. It makes it seem more real, somehow, his passing. This scent that fills my nose and threatens to suffocate me. Like the smoke of burning bodies. Thoughts intrude then, of the realness of Paladin and of Nate. Why hadn’t I done more to help them? Why hadn’t I been there for Nate instead of fearing him, why hadn’t I loved him? Why hadn’t I warned the Paladin that my information was just guesswork, the half-faded memories secondhand from a dead man?

I set down the Lucky’s and memories of men lucky to be dead and take up a tiny handmirror, tarnished and cracked in places, and run a finger along its silver edge. It has gotten dirty, its silver tarnished near brown with age and wear. It is another clumsy gift from the Paladin, a treasure he had found in a supply run through Fallon’s. He had seen posters in the old make-up department of pre-war women dolling themselves up in compacts, I suppose, and had thought of me. He had polished it once, or tried to, and areas where it had been so thoughtfully polished were near worn away. Silly and ever thoughtful to the end, that man. I purse my lips, fighting back his memory, and squint at myself in it.

My face is gaunt, the sharp lines of cheekbones and a stubborn jaw all the more severe. Compared to the rest of the wasteland, I am still an exotic, pre-war soft. I am not yet skin and bones, jutting strangely at odd angles like a gnarled tree. But I am quickly approaching it.

I want to laugh at myself for the old habit, comparing myself to others. I think of the Family harpies, cawing and clawing each other to pieces over something as silly as looks. I was one of them once. Still am, deep down. Who am I trying to impress with this? Their ghosts? Myself? The Elder? No, I should go in looking like a hag and save myself another go from the Elder.

But I cannot help it, despite my best efforts. Vanity is, perhaps, my last toehold on dignity. On who I was before.

I look at this reflection, at this haggard woman in the mirror, and try to find myself. Her hair, messy and cloud-like despite my best efforts, makes her face long and narrow. Thinning her out even more, looking like a ghoul in a wig. Pulled back the look would be severe, like a stern oldtime governess, but it would do. Sicilian curls attract too many eyes. Natural hair with bounce and curl is an alien sight in the wasteland. Otherworldly even in its most wild state, like an earthy halo. With a tight bun, or literally anything else, this woman will not immediately attract attention. She will not be stared at.

I frown and quickly gather back my hair, but I pause. The bright orange of a brotherhood flag, almost blinding in its brightness. The gears and winged sword are centered behind my head, the wings like a halo sprouting from me.

The Paladin would wake up and look at that flag in the morning; I remember him doing so the day he left on the expedition. Half asleep and dreary, it is a half-memory. Like a dream. Had it been? I can no longer tell anymore. But the Paladin real or unreal spoke to that flag as if he were praying to God, asking for safe travels, for forgiveness for all he had done. He had done it for the Brotherhood, he had said, for the good of humanity. He genuinely believed it. And, when I heard it, I had hated him for it and willed myself back to sleep. When I woke, he was gone. And I never saw him again.

A small shred of me hopes that somehow he is still alive. That his unwavering faith in the Brotherhood kept him alive. Perhaps he stumbled upon a bunker and is still awaiting rescue. Perhaps the storms will clear and we can send in scouts or Vertibirds. We’ll find him, still in his power armor, that stupid smile on his face and his beard grown from all the weeks without shaving. He wouldn’t look good with a beard, I don’t think. But I can see him now striding up to me in his power armor, his feet thundering across the steel floors of the Prydwen like thunder. Thunk, thunk, thunk — almost deafeningly loud but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. Thunk, thunk, thunk as he walks towards me, lecturing me on something or other as I’m crying my eyes out at the sight of him. Professionalism, fraternization, something or other but then he says fuck it all as he wraps me up in his arms. He’s glad to see me again, he’s found Virgil, he has the key to the Institute. He’ll get Shaun come hell or high water, he will tell me, and in our own weird way, we’ll be a family. We’ll play baseball and have family holidays and Danse will be alive and not dead.

Protect us from these Bathshebas, say the harpies, and protect those Uriahs foolish enough to love them.

Had David really been the one to send Uriah back off to war to die, or had it been his own wife? Ashamed of what had happened her, wanting to hide it, had she had a part in his death? I look at those wings through my mirror and watch a tear run down my cheek.

What fucking good was faith? God is dead. Hell is empty, and its demons linger here.

I still linger here.

I clumsily smear a hand at my cheek and finish beating down my wild curls into submission. I toss the rest of the mess into a lopsided bun, the best I can bring myself to do after such a morning, such a painful night. My legs, my entire lower body still hurts. No, hurts is not the right word. I can still feel him…

Another knock on the door, hurried and impatient this time.

I turn to tell them again I’ll be just a moment. But no, the door is open now, and in the doorway stands the Knight-Sergeant Erica Renner. Her greying hair has been cut short now, just barely brushing the shoulders of her flight suit. And judging from the oil stains at the joints, the first thing she’s seen since out of her power armor. She must have just returned from the world beyond the Prydwen. She smells of sweat, adrenaline. Of adventure. I think of how many weeks it has been since I have even seen the sky—

Good morning, she says with a soft and gentle smile. Her smile is a welcome sight. Refreshing. Friendliness and even the barest of conversations had evaporated from my life after I tried to escape. Perhaps the people I had thought my brothers and sisters in arms had feared for my sanity, or perhaps they feared me because of it. Some brave souls occasionally gave a greeting to the scavver squatting in the Paladin’s quarters, but most avoided me. This was new, someone coming to seek me out. The strangeness of it all is troubling, but I am too glad at Renner’s presence to care.

Good morning, Erica, I say perhaps a bit too quickly and my cheeks quickly tire from how much I’m smiling, how was your patrol?

I would like to say that she has come to rescue me, or at the very least, that she is here to be my friend again. That she is here to tell me that this was all some huge mistake and that I’m free to go, that she’s killed the Elder, that the Prydwen is rigged to explode, that she’s here for morning mimosas and wants to start a bridge club. A million and one different scenarios race through my mind, blinding and panting and frantic, like racing dogs chasing a mechanical rabbit. As her expressions change so too does the speed of the rabbit, and the greyhounds remain just a hairsbreadth away. What is she here for, these dogs howl, why has she come to see me?

I hear that if dogs run for too fast for too long, their hearts can explode. From beating too fast, from too much excitement, from too much anticipation. As I watch her I feel my heart begin to follow, beating faster and threatening to burst from my chest from it. It hurts. Erica watches me too, and I feel the rabbit roll faster along its mechanical track, speeding away farther than I can catch it as her smile fades from her face. She sees those dogs, that frantic hunger, the starvation of friendliness and human decency in my life, and she quickly speaks to keep me from bursting.

The Paladin has returned. We just brought him back on vertibird and—

Boom.

 

 

 

I sit now in the Elder’s quarters staring at my hands. When I had fainted Erica had brought me first to Cade, then after I was declared stable, was brought immediately to the Elder. He sits across from me and I feel his gaze boring into me but I don’t look. I can’t.

Embarrassment, or perhaps shame, rules me. My head is heavy with it, and my neck cranes ever downward. I hear the Elder speak.

You really do love him, don’t you. Danse.

The index finger on my left hand twitches at that. I make no other movement, as I don’t want to acknowledge it. Rather, I do not wish to admit it. I am now twice widowed, my first husband not dead for even a year before my second is rendered also dead. Some woman I am with such a fleeting, flitting heart, like a bird in heat darting from branch to branch, looking for a mate with the prettiest feathers. The Paladin was my friend, only a friend I say to myself again and again, but the Elder is right. To some degree I do love him.

Thunk, thunk, thunk goes my heart against my bones, against my being, threatening to crush me. The sound fills my ears and it hurts. It hurts so bad.

I can understand not wanting to vacate his quarters, to mourn him, but those quarters belong to the Prydwen’s senior Paladin — which Paladin Brandis most certainly is. I called you here to instruct you to vacate your room for his arrival, though I suppose Knight-Sergeant Renner already took the initiative. But I must say, fainting at that was not something I expected from you. I took you as something stronger than that. I suppose love makes fools of us all.

I hear him stand, the grating of the legs of his chair against the steel. I feel myself tense at the noise of his footsteps, imagining him taking me again, the perversion of love or lust or something else entirely. He is a nightmare made manifest, and I half-wish I would faint again. Render me unconscious, don’t make me remember this, don’t make party to this madness. A willing party.

The sound of a chair again, and he sits down. Something is set on the table, then the small sound of things placed on the table.

What has he brought for me? As I wonder my eyes wander to the foot of the bed just a few scant feet from my right foot. This bed, just hours before I had been bent over and brutally raped. At least it had been quick, and he had banished me to my room immediately after. I was no challenge in the end, I would suppose. No grand quarry, no war to be won. Just a fainting prewar woman, a stolen mother to have children stolen from. Taking my honor and my dignity, taking me, had been like taking candy from a baby.

I imagine then these things on the table. What could they be? Devices to punish me for his pleasure, to break me further or make me stronger? To make me writhe and fight against him? Some kinky fetish of his, chains or whips or leathers. I think of raiders in their harnesses and masks, high and mad from the jet and charging headlong to their deaths with nothing more than a broken pool cue. Preston and I had come across some of their camps, found and freed their slaves in no better condition than their masters.  Am I to be such a slave to this master of mine?

I think also of Darla, dressed up in sequins and painted prewar pretty, kept on a leash of a different type of addiction. A slave of dolled-up savagery that I knew all too well. I suppose the Brotherhood is no different than the Family I knew, though they champion militarism rather than materialism. Still, a mob is still a mob, even if armed to the teeth and floating in a giant balloon. Perhaps he has for me a sequin dress, feathers, a collar. Make-ups in reds and blues and garish pinks. Tall, stilettoed shoes and fishnet stockings. I remember that small smile on his face, that look in his eyes as he ordered me to do his bidding. It had not been an unfamiliar look.

I look up.

Upon the table is no is no whip, no collar, no dress or stilettos of any kind — but a chessboard. The Elder looks down at the board thoughtfully, the palm of his hand cradling a clean-shaven chin. I almost do not recognize him without the beard, as he looks years younger than he already is. His eyes are the same though, hard and cutting as always, steely and focused on the challenge before him. He does not meet my gaze. Upon a black pawn he places a single finger, big enough to shatter it, and ponders a move. He speaks.

Fortunately for us, love is not required between us. Forbidden, in the Codex.

I saw no such passages in the Codex, I say hesitantly. I have seen nothing about anything at all pertaining to any of this. His finger is still upon the pawn, but I feel its pressure on me. The weight of his statement threatens to crush me.

They were stricken from our records during the era of… of Lyons. Elder Lyons thought the practice barbaric and immediately ceased taking such resources from the people of the wasteland.

It seems the more I hear about this Elder Lyons, the more I like him. A sudden surge of boldness takes me, and I reach out a hand to the chessboard. White pawn to D4. A wordless agreement with the late Elder, and open and careful defiance of the current one. He is surprised at this move, first with the aggression of it and of my daring to move it in the first place, and the closest he gets to a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. The jagged scar on his right cheek lines it, and for the first time I see the true size of it. It runs from his eye down to the jaw, jagged and dimpled from the staples that had undoubtedly kept his face together. What had it been from again, a deathclaw they had said? At thirteen?

A brow raises and the eyes of the man -- the young man, the boy — who killed a deathclaw meet mine. He says nothing and slowly pushes his black pawn to meet mine. They stand side by side in the middle of the battlefield, facing off alone in a great checkerboard field.

I would think the same, if it were not for the necessity of such an act. Fertility is incredibly rare in the wasteland, and the Brotherhood is no Institute. We cannot simply manufacture more soldiers. So we recruit fertile women into our ranks in order to replenish our ranks and keep our Brotherhood alive and strong. You are one of these invaluable women. Your duty is to have children. There is no need for love for that, not you for I nor I for you. Duty is duty. We must both follow it, no matter how unpleasant it may be to both of us.

I look at those two pawns, standing alone in their empty battlefield, a lone showdown between two warriors unable to take one another. No, they simple stand there in the center. A thought takes me, suddenly and without warning, that instead of a battlefield, perhaps it is a couple with a gathering of two different sides. An empty aisle perhaps, a procession. A couple standing together, blissfully unaware of the world around them, unable to part nor advance together. Simply stuck transfixed in time and space, white and black stuck eternally together, yin and yang. Light and darkness. Metaphorical bullshit.

I’ve had too much time to think and I’ve gone crazy.

I look back up to the Elder, and his face is smug. From the luck on his face, he doesn’t think I can win. I’ve spent too much time pondering these pawns, these useless pieces in a grander game of strategy and war, only one of these tiny faceless soldiers in an army of eight. First turn, first move, first response. Already I’m questioning. Weak. In his eyes, I am but a pawn.

I adjust myself in my chair, setting my wrists upon the table and straightening my back. Good, I say as I move another pawn to C4, I wasn’t planning on it.

Good, he says right back with a tinge of laughter in his voice. He uses his pawn to take the pawn at C4, breaking the deadlock between our pawns. He is beside it now, free to move away and forward. Little does he know, however, that he has fallen for my trap.

We play quietly and thoughtfully, pondering moves carefully and myself often minutes at a time. The Elder is impatient, judging from the noisy shifting in his chair and the visible irritation on his face. However, he does not say or convey anything other than the ever-present grimace he always wears. It ages him, though without the beard he looks like a petulant child. A child pouting because he is not getting his way, perhaps.

Why has he shaven it?

He keeps scratching at his face, which is scarred beyond even what I had imagined lay under that wild bush he had stuck on his face. This is not the face of a twenty year old. It should not be. I imagine a deathclaw swiping at a thirteen year old boy, the boy with half his face drenched in blood fighting for his life and barely surviving. The stories of other scars on his face, upon his brow and his left eye, of the lines and wrinkles already upon his face. I suppose war and battle ages a person, even someone as young as the Elder. Hell, I had known young Italian boys before the War hassling and fighting the Irish in Southie, and they had been nearly half his age.  Luis had been one of them before I helped knock some sense into him.

I had never liked it.

I see the worry and the thought in his face, the tiredness that seemed to linger behind the determined air of authority he was so careful to exude. Here, playing chess, he is smaller, more relaxed. He is not always a warlord, not always a monster, perhaps. I remember the night he lent me his coat. It had indeed been a power move against the Paladin, my Uriah, his claim upon me was evident even then. No wonder the Paladin had distanced himself. But, then again, as I look into this young face aged far to early to a man twice is age, I think that perhaps that was not all it had been. A man lingered beyond the warlord, maybe. Perhaps there is truth in his words.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the bed. The bed where he —

I hide a frown as of my own as I continue to play, in my own way letting him now just what I am prepared to do in order to win. Gone goes my bishop, gone go my rooks.

I advance my pawn.

He outright laughs at that. Perhaps, he says as he leans back to contemplate the apparently sorry state of my board, I should teach you to play properly sometime. You’ve lost all your best pieces. I’ll have your king in mere moments. Would you care for a rematch? Perhaps with a strategy this time?

No.

Oh? Alright. Knight takes Queen. The game is as good as done, Sol—

— And I’ll move my bishop. Checkmate.

What? No, surely you haven’t—

He has to blink back his surprise as he realizes that the game is over, and that I have won. He looks at the board in astonishment, and even moves a few pieces back to their original places, going over the moves one more time to check that, yes, he had lost. I see his jaw clench.

I touch a finger to the head of a white pawn and show a small smile, a thinly disguised smirk, at my master, this paradoxical young Elder sitting and fuming before me. I speak evenly, careful to leave out the smugness I ever so want to throw back into his face.

Don’t discount the pawns, Elder. They are as capable as taking Kings as any other piece. You were greedy from the start, Elder, and made too many risks. You sought prey and chased, but you forgot positioning. So busy were you on the offensive, a mere pawn wormed its way though your defenses and straight to — I tap a finger on the hole in the table where my broken knife blade had been — the heart of your army. The king.

It takes several moments of fuming and contemplation of the board before he manages to calm himself. He is not used to losing and is sore for it. He crosses his arms over his massive chest and stares me down.

I misjudged you, it would seem.

Indeed you did. And do. I nod quietly and begin to place the pieces back in their respective spots. I reach over to the other side of the board, toward the Elder, to return my taken pieces to my side of the battlefield one by one. I am taking back what’s mine.   I may be but a pawn in his eyes, but this pawn has conquered the king.  I look him in the eye then, my hands deliberate in their movement of the pieces.  I will make him know this.

I suppose, he says resignedly, rolling his shoulders, that it is customary for the losing party to grant a reward to the victor. You had a fair strategy, and won well and fairly with it.

My fingers freeze on my last piece, the taken pawn. I answer without hesitation that I would like my freedom.

He takes my hand then, roughly, the plastic of the pawn audibly cracking in my grip and in his. You know that is impossible, he says. Something else, he says, something that is in his power to give.

It does not take long to think of something, but I can think of more than a few things I would like. A new robe. A room of my own to replace the one taken by Paladin Brandis. A life without armed guards watching my every movement. My duties and privileges as a scribe returned to me to keep me from the boredom I have been subjected to. But it is none of these things that springs from my lips first, immediately. Desperately. It is not something I would like. It is something I need.

The sky.

The sky? That's hardly a thing a I can give. I am a man, not a god.

No, Elder, I say quietly, I would like to see the sky again.

He looks at me then in utter astonishment. Evidently he has forgotten that I have been imprisoned inside the Prydwen, forbidden from the flight deck and the forecastle for nearly three weeks. From the ground even longer. That armed guards barred my way and that ever-changing locks replaced the ones I broke through or simply broke with bobby pins. House arrest has become my life. He is speechless at this apparent revelation.

I’m going mad up here, I tell him urgently, if nothing else, please, just let me see the sun again. Stars.  Clouds.  A glimpse, I don’t care, I just want to be able to go outside again.  If I can’t have my freedom, if I can't have my dignity or my honor, if I can’t have my son... at the very least give me that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments, and as always, any and all comments, critique and/or criticism is always welcome. Without it, how will I ever be able to write a good story for your guys?


	11. Chapter 11

The early morning has become a time of quiet thought and contemplation for me as of late. As they will not let me drink to help me sleep or coffee to help me wake, I lay often upon the mattress with half-dreams racing through my half-waking mind, visions like ghosts appearing before my eyes, memories of times long gone invading my reality.  
  
Or perhaps, as I think may be likely, I have simply gone insane.  
  
I turn over in my bed -- wait, no. It is not my bed. Since it is Brandis who now is in the room that was never my room, I have new quarters now, that have never been and will never be mine. Never assigned to the name that is not my name. This woman who is no woman lies now beside the sleeping form of the Elder. Until new quarters can be made for me, he keeps me here beside him. Beside him I cannot sleep. So simply I lie, passively.  
  
I could kill him. Tie him down with the sheets, strangle him. Find a gun and shoot him in the heart. Find something sharp and slit his throat. We both know I am capable of these things. We both know how sorely I wish to do these things. That I have often tried to do these things. My hands tremble with the anticipation of it, that this enemy of mine is so close to me that I not only touch him but feel his heartbeat thundering against me like a wardrum.  
  
But he has promised to bring me to the airport today.  
  
He had asked that in return I spend the night with him Tit for tat, as they say, though I suppose it is in a more literal sense. I could not get my prize without giving something in return, and I suppose my own self was all I had left to give. I had imagined this expenditure of the night to be as it was the night before, rough and quick and brutal. Lust without lust, just anger and pain and tears. But, to my surprise, there had been none of that.  
  
Instead, he had simply gone to sleep with me lying beside him.  
  
Hours have passed since then. Sleepless for me, fitful for him. I watch him now, my bloodshot eyes weary and straining in the dark. My eyes follow the long, snaking scars running down the muscles of his back, across his spine and shoulders down to his hips. Scars and plasma burns, the skin uneven and pink at parts. His back rises and falls gently, at times rising and harsh, frantic, when the memories of battles that gave him these horrible scars undoubtedly resurface in his dreams. I fight the urge to place my hand upon this behemoth beside me, to calm his sleep. To return some semblance of peace to the both of us. But I do not want to touch him. The slightest movement might set him off.  
  
The muscles in his back tense and his breathing quickens, expelled harshly in grunts. He is fighting something. I know this sound, this look, this panic suddenly rising within me. I think of Nate, after his war, attempting to strangle me as I slept. His eyes are far away, still dreaming of the war in Alaska far away as he sees some ghost of a Red in mine, and chokes the life from me. I can't speak, I can't breathe, my heart is racing and my body is flailing but he's too heavy -- I can't get him off. I have to pull the pistol I have under my pillow on him. I have learned from the last time this has happened. After it was over I told him through our tears that I was leaving him. Come morning, though, the bombs fell.  
  
I see this part of Nate now in the Elder before me, this hatred and hurt that don't ever go away, I feel it in the rising heat of his body and the harshness of his breathing, the sporadic twitching of his arms and legs. Muted violence now, but in a mere moment -- I back away, against the cold steel wall, away from the Elder. He has me walled in. Trapped. Instinctively I reach to my pillow but nothing is there.  
  
He turns over and I see his face, twisted in an emotion I have never before seen on him. Whatever it is it quickly does not matter, as I am grabbed roughly by the shoulders and pulled to him. My breath catches in my throat and I remain absolutely still. I do not fight, I give him no reason to move his hands mere inches to snap my neck. I am not your enemy, I say to myself again and again, willing it to him. Please, don't hurt me.  
  
His hands run from my shoulders to my back and he pins me to him. His breath, gradually, slows. He keeps me held to him, tightly and almost painfully so, and places his chin on the top of my head. He shaved earlier today, but that wild beard has begun to grow. The stubble is rough on my head, his touch hurts. I want to get out, and ever so slightly, I try to wriggle out of his grasp. He only holds me tighter against him and then, he speaks ever so softly, tenderly, calling out what has plagued the deepest of his dreams.  
  
Sarah, he whispers. Sarah.  
  
  
  
  
  
It is still early morning, before muster and when it is still eerily quiet on the Prydwen. Those weary unfortunates on night shift greet us as we walk past, but the Elder does not acknowledge them. He deliberately and quite visibly refuses to. He has been such since he woke up, since finding me in his arms. He had shouted and nearly threw me against the wall.  
  
I am no substitute for Sarah. Perhaps I cannot be. Must not be. Did he ever want me to be? Does he still? I cannot tell whether he is angry, hurt or glad for it all as he would not look at me. He stood, poured himself more than a glass of whiskey and gruffly ordered me to get dressed. I had quickly donned the new scribe's robes and jacket he had procured for me, and before I had even fasted the buttons he was out the door and I scrambling behind.  
  
Since then he had kept a large berth between us. He does so even now as he escorts me to the flight deck. When I quicken my step to match his, he lengthens his stride.  
  
My guards are curiously absent. We walk quickly. Very quickly, as if this thing he is doing something forbidden in allowing me this barest of freedoms. As if there is someone waiting just around the corner to catch us in the act. Perhaps my guards are as much for him as for me.  
  
Perhaps that is why we have left so early.  
  
We make our way to the Command deck, then to the bulkhead. I have not been here in weeks. Not since my last attempt at escape. The Elder opens the bulkhead with ease, letting in a harsh gust of wind that nearly knocks me over. It washes over me like a thousand ice-cold knives, cutting in its harshness and slashing mercilessly at my skin. It is not quite winter and not quite spring, though it does not matter. Every day in the Commonwealth is cold. But, the hurt on my skin feels good. It stands on end part from the chill, but it is excitement that overtakes me.  
  
I step closer to the open bulkhead and stand in the doorway, looking out at the flight deck that has been forbidden to me for so long. Vertibirds hang silently and swing gently in the wind, as if being rocked to sleep in their metal cradles. The stars still linger behind wispy, sickly looking clouds. The moon shines brightly, almost blindingly so now that the Commonwealth does not outshine it. Its light casts a ghostly glow upon the deck, lonely and still in these early morning hours.  
  
The wind whips around me, ripping my hair from its bun and sending it flying into my face. I breathe in deeply, letting it fill my lungs and sting my throat with the chill. It is delicious, the wind, the stars, the sky. How had I never noticed them before?  
  
The Elder stops then at the foot of the stairs, silhouetted in the moonlight, and looks back to me. He stands there, waiting, then waves his hand impatiently. Come, it says with without words, commanding. Quickly.  
  
I do not question, I do not hesitate. I am too thrilled with the air around me, the sky, feeling for the first time in weeks fresh, unfiltered air in my lungs. My feet are quick and I dash down the stairs with such speed and eagerness that the Elder is taken aback. Moreso when my heel misses a step and I'm sent flying straight into him. He catches me with ease, holding me steady as I teeter back into balance. A violent shiver runs down my spine. It is not from the cold. I remember his sleepy embrace, the hidden tenderness in his voice, the back that reminds me of Nate.  
  
As I attempt, in vain, to shake these vile thoughts from my mind I wonder what this man's game is. He does not want me now that he has had me, found that I am no vicious Lyon, surely. I think of our chess game, of my queen's gambit he had so recklessly accepted.  
  
Gambit. The word comes from the old Italian word gambetto, to trip. My father taught me that when I was a child, after I had fallen for his tricks far too much to be funny anymore. You are being tricked, sunshine, he would say as he pointed out pieces and moves on our little plastic board, do not fall for it. Tripping, falling, tricking. Falling over something, as if running and stumbling, tumbling out of control through no fault of your own. Accidentally falling, head over heels. What is his trick?  
  
His hands are still upon me even after I have been steadied. His eyes looking into mine thoughtfully and, perhaps, searching. I am reminded of old movies, of scenes such as this, man holding woman after falling into him, for him perhaps, his hands lingering and moving to pull her in for a--  
  
Then he remembers. He releases me and wipes his hands on his battlecoat, as if I were some distasteful slimy thing now stuck to him. He turns abruptly, grumbling something about being more careful, and walks briskly down the flight deck. He is in the airport taxi now, sending the lancer who had been peacefully dozing just moments before standing into a rigid salute. Now I am in the Vertibird, clinging for dear life at the handles as it goes spiraling down to touch down at the airport. It is a quick affair, or at least to my tired and racing mind it is.  
  
As I watch the world spin and fly about around me, I think once more of falling.  
  
Women used to fall in love with men, and men with women, all sorts of lovers were falling every which way. You never really did it intentionally, it just happened. Tripping into it. Love was indeed a gambit, and one I tended to lose. I think of this gambit of mine, of his lingering hands and lingering gazes, and I wonder in what sense this pawn had taken the unwitting king. Falling, I feel myself beginning to fall --  
  
I want to fall from this Vertibird.  
  
The Vertibird touches down none too gently and it jolts me out of my daze-like state. I can no longer fall, save for a few scant feet. Hardly enough to fall into oblivion.  
  
We've arrived.  
  
He jumps from the Vertibird and lands with ease on the landing pad. After a moment's consideration, he extends a hand to me to help me down. I do not take it, I do not dare, and jump down myself. My legs, however, are jelly and once more I wobble and struggle to gain my footing. The Elder now understands my apprehension of him, though, and does not attempt to steady me. My feet have not felt solid ground in months. I want to collapse to the ground, to hug it and kiss it and feel it everywhere, to savor each and every detail I have so hungered for for so long.  
  
But I do not.  
  
Instead, I brush off my robes and adjust the jacket on my shoulders. I am okay, I am no longer falling, I am steady. Sound, as they say. Safe.  
  
I simply enjoy being able to walk on solid ground, to smell the early morning and watch my breath turn to mist before my eyes. I have missed this, these simple pleasures of the outdoors, and I will relish in them for as long as I am able. I breathe harder, letting out a steady stream of breath and watch it turn to a long cloud like dragon's fire from my mouth. I feel like a child again, and happier than I have felt in a long time. I feel myself laugh at that.  
  
Until I feel the Elder's eyes upon me. He is still walking beside me, matching my step, watching me. What does this young warlord think of this woman a decade his senior, this relic of the past, playing in the cold like a child? Like a child this woman is meant to bear for him?  
  
The thought turns the mood sour, at least for me. I see the corner of his mouth pull into the barest of smirks at my antics, and he shakes his head and looks up at the sky. At its fringes, over the water and the ruins of Fort Strong, pastel oranges and pinks begin to show.  
  
Shall we walk, the Elder says in a question, though his questions are no questions but commands. As they always are. I nod my obedience and follow my commander as he walks leisurely through the airport. Saunters, really, as if on a Sunday morning stroll. I've forgotten, is it Sunday?  
  
The air is still and quiet, the darkness covering everything like a cloak. Light like fire eats away at its edges slowly, bleeding into the black and casting a faint light on everything. It is quiet here, where we wander now, with only the stars and the creeping sunlight to witness us.  
  
We walk quietly, not knowing quite what to say to one another or how to say it. The silence hovers over us heavily, almost stifling. Finally, I speak.  
  
Where is everyone?  
  
They are preparing to receive a shipment of supplies and reinforcements from the Citadel. The Elder points to the area that I know to be logistics, or perhaps beyond. I have forgotten what the world outside the Prydwen is like. But he thinks I know and lowers his hand, continuing. As the only suitable docking areas are outside the base, there is a retinue of soldiers awaiting their arrival. They will escort the caravan here, and we are waiting here to welcome them.  
  
I am confused. The Prydwen has many docking sites for vertibirds, moreso since patrols began crashing them. The Commonwealth adapts quickly, and to the Brotherhood it fought back against fiercely. Many a soldier had been lost to a super mutant suicider leaping into rotors or Gunners with missile launchers and Fat Man launchers. We had lost many, more than even the loss of the expedition team. But still, there was plenty of room to land a vertibird, even if it were laden with troops and gear.  
  
Wait, no, not we. I do not want to say we. We are no we, the Brotherhood is a them. It must be.  
  
The Elder sees my confusion and continues.  
  
They are coming by sea from the Citadel. It takes more time than flying here, yes, but it is easier than braving a ground caravan.  
  
I look then to the sun cresting the waters of the Atlantic, of the white-capped waves crashing against the distant shores of Nordhagen. This is not an easy sea to sail, I say, are you sure the ship will even make it here?  
  
They must. If not, we will have to take drastic measures to even maintain our foothold here in the Commonwealth. Without those supplies and reinforcements will allow us to recover from the disaster in the Glowing Sea and look for another avenue to the Institute.  
  
His words are a kick in the gut and I stop in my tracks. I remember again the blazing orange of the Brotherhood flag, the Paladin prostrated before it just before marching off to his death. My fault, your fault, your disaster. Suddenly cold, I hug my arms to my chest and hug the jacket about me.  
  
It is not to say that this disaster is yours, Sol, your lead was the best one we had had since arriving in the Commonwealth. For all we know, this Virgil may still be hiding somewhere there. We simply do not possess the means to reach him, and we simply executed the mission too early. Our soldiers walked into the Sea knowing what might await them, and they faced it bravely and with honor. He pauses then, looking to me. Do not blame yourself for their deaths, as I know you are doing. I see it in your eyes, the weight you've lost. It's been eating away at you.  
  
He gestures for me to keep walking, to keep my mind away from lingering. Move on, says that gesture, keep going.  
  
I may be younger than you, Sol, but I've been leading armies for over half my life. If you let every decision you ever make, every mistake you might make along the way eat away at you like this -- weigh you down with guilt -- it'll destroy you. No one is perfect, and as much as my soldiers will try to tell you otherwise, I am but a man and am by no means perfect either. Though, judging by your constant insubordination, you know that already.  
  
He gives me the slightest of smirks before continuing.  
  
If I were to dwell on every mistake I had ever made, wallowed in misery and self-pity until someone dragged me back up again, all would have been lost long ago. You have a job to do, a duty to perform. Your son remains lost to the Institute, and you do nothing except not eat and mourn the past. The past is the past, Sol, leave it there. Your son needs a strong mother to fight for him and save him, not a prattling pre-war housewife. Get up, move on, get over it.  
  
I do not know how to take these words of encouragement, or perhaps of insult considering the source. I hear myself speak before I process it.  
  
Like you have with Sarah?  
  
At the name he blinks back his surprise. Does he not think I have heard the name before, from the Scrolls and the Codex that he had made me study so diligently? Does he not remember calling for her in his dreams as he held me? Perhaps not. But either way, his surprise quickly gives way to irritation. When he speaks, it is my turn to be surprised. He speaks with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, leaning forward as if forcing himself to say the words.  
  
Yes, like I have with Sarah. Sarah Lyons was a great woman and an unparalleled force on the battlefield, if her skills as an Elder were considerably lacking. If I had had the chance, I would have married her when I came of age. His face hardens as he speaks of her, his jaw clenching with the effort of it.  
  
Why is he telling me these things? Why is he encouraging me instead of breaking me down, making me obedient? Shouldn't I remain the demure and obedient slave, coming and going or bending over when I'm told? What is his game?  
  
But I am here and she is not. As tragic as her death was, the Brotherhood is stronger than it has ever been, united under my guidance. The Prydwen has been built and flown here as a weapon of war against the Institute and its synths. We have taken perhaps the best staging area in this endeavor and have begun to build a post to rival that of the Citadel. As the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel, I cannot afford to second guess myself or crush myself with the weight of unnecessary guilt.  
  
I look at him again, to his stubbly chin and the lines of his face, and see the heartbreaking face of youth hiding behind the years of experience and war. It has lined his face in scars and in premature wrinkles borne of worry and ever-present frowns. This is not a man of twenty, it cannot be. It should not be. What he speaks of is not possible for a man of twenty, surely. But the longer I look at him, studying his face and thinking on his words, the more I feel the resounding truth behind his words. The more I feel the strength and the unmistakable authority he exudes. Seeing this, hearing this, it is easy to see why his soldiers worship him.  
  
We continue to walk, this time the silence a refreshing respite from increasingly hostile conversation. Instead we make our way out of an airway gate, through an entry tunnel to where a plane might wait. The plane is long gone, perhaps taken off or taken by the sea. It is not there, but standing here we can see the sun explode over the horizon, its golden rays bouncing off the subsiding waves. The moment is one of beauty, an impossible serenity that drowns out even the roiling storm and growing madness deep inside me. After this briefest of moments has passed and the sun begins to take its place in the sky, I feel calmer. Perhaps it was the scenery, perhaps it was the unexpected words of the man beside me, but to some degree I feel at peace.  
  
Sol.  
  
I look to the Elder, and find him once more looking at him. His face has none of the hardness or hostility I have come to expect of him, and it catches me off-guard.  
  
... yes?  
  
Your name, Sol. He looks back to the risen sun, still chasing away the darkness from the sky. It means Sun in Latin. Surely, no woman before the war was given such a name.  
  
No, it wasn't my given name, before.  
  
The Elder nods his satisfaction, having for perhaps the first time wrested a concrete answer from me. Then what is it? He asks.  
  
Sol.  
  
He raises a brow. He thinks I will not tell him. Perhaps I won’t. At least, not all of it.  
  
The woman before the war is dead, I tell him. It doesn't matter anymore, who she was, what she did. It will take some getting used to, but the woman I am now, I would suppose, is Sol.  
  
He raises a brow. Why do you say that?  
  
Anche il sole passa sopra il fango, e non s'imbratta, Elder.  
  
... what?  
  
It's Italian. It means that even the sun passes over filth, and is not defiled, I reply. Before the war, my family came here to Boston from Sicily. It was ravaged by the Resource Wars and looked a bit by then like the Commonwealth does now, I would guess. I don't know, though, as I was born here. My father always said that little phrase to me, to encourage me, and I think he called me sunshine because of it. Said I could conquer the world, no matter what it threw at me. No matter what I had to go through, I'd always be his sunshine. I suppose I've always been Sol, then, in a way.  
  
To my surprise he outright smiles at that, perhaps a bit surprised and pleased that I apparently took his advice. His smile is awkward and lopsided, the stapled part of his face doesn’t turn up as it should, but instead just widens, giving him the look of a man having just had a stroke. I see why he does not often smile, but this look of genuine happiness, or rather amusement, is a look I prefer immensely to his usual glower. Perhaps he has not caught my jab at him, calling him and his Brotherhood filth, or perhaps he does not want to catch it. At his crooked smile I find myself smiling too, grinning like an idiot at the rising sun.  
  
It looks like hope.  
  
I squint at it now, from the brightness of it, and have to lift my hand to shield my eyes. Then, there. On the horizon, to the southwest, something moving. The boat has arrived.  
  
We move from the tunnel to the outer perimeter of the airport, where I am surprised to see charred human skeletons. It is no surprise, as the volatile laser rifles of the Brotherhood are powerful enough to burn flesh from bone. But the sheer amount of them, scattered just outside the walls and barricades against burned out husks of cars and buses and buildings leaves the taste of bile in my mouth. Perhaps it was a herd of ferals who had wandered into the perimeter, or a small army of raiders or gunners aiming to destroy the Brotherhood presence.  
  
I think also of the starving settlers Preston and I had stumbled across on our travels through the Commonwealth, or of Preston himself and his growing ragtag band of Minutemen. Perhaps they too had attempted to free the Commonwealth from the growing influence of the Brotherhood in their territory and the interim General had led a doomed charge against them. I feel my heart sink, and I wonder after my friends in the Commonwealth. I scan the vaporized bodies for any sign of minuteman uniforms, press caps, a green trenchcoat.  
  
I see none of these things among the piles of bones of dead men or ghouls or raiders or whatever they are. However, I am not reassured. I feel myself shifting weight from foot to foot, suddenly anxious. The fiery sunrise suddenly feels like an omen.  
  
The roar of a Vertibird echoes through the ruined buildings, ripping through the air as it returns to the Prydwen. That would be the supplies, and the reinforcements would be returning on foot. The Elder straightens his back, once again assuming the strong and stony stance and air of the indomitable leader of the Brotherhood. He must look good for his soldiers, of course, he had eased himself somewhat with me. Strangely enough, as I should be the last person he should feel comfortable with. God knows I should, and yet--  
  
Ad victoriam, Elder!

The entourage comes into view, among them at least two dozen men and women whose faces I do not know. In moments they are at the gate, through it, and the Elder is returning their collective salute. I feel out of place beside him, suddenly small despite my height over him. Or perhaps because of it. I am conspicuous, and am attracting stares. The eyes of an older blonde catch my eye, as they are glaring. She pushes through the crowd to the front.  
  
The Elder is caught off guard by her, and his image falters for the briefest of moments. When he regains it, it is somehow even more stern and unfriendly than before. I feel cold standing next to him, in addition to this woman's cold stare.  
  
She is a scribe, judging from the flowing robes and odd device upon her wrist not unlike my pip-boy. Her look is severe and clean-cut, with hair cropped tight to the ears and face almost surreal in its healthy glow. She is severe, also, by the cutting look she's pointing at us. The other soldiers seem to give her a wide berth, so evidently she is someone important. She approaches us and, much to my surprise, takes the Elder in a tight embrace.  
  
Moreso, when he awkwardly returns it.  
  
Arthur, she says with all the casual pleasantness as if talking to a nephew or a son as she pulls away from him, who is this?  
  
Natalia, I did not expect you.  
  
Arthur, she says again. She keeps saying his name, again and again, looking at me each and every time. She is possessive of this evidently, like a dragon guarding its horde. She says his name in a hiss, each time directed at me. Arthur, dear. Aren't you going to introduce me?  
  
He sighs. She is the Mother I told you about in our communiques, the prewar scientist Sol.  
  
The scavver woman? She spits it out like poison. Apparently, this aunt of the Elder or whoever she disapproves of me.  
  
Yes, one and the same. She has proven herself to also be a skilled scribe, and may prove useful in your work here on the Prydwen, since you are evidently here to perform it personally.  
  
She blinks once. Twice. Three times. But, Arthur, wasn't she going to be assigned to my uncle at the Citadel? The boat is still waiting for her.  
  
The Elder waves his hand dismissively. That is not necessary. Order it sent back. It has been decided that she will perform her duties here. The Maxson line requires her services more than the Casdins. Speaking of which. Sol.  
  
He claps a hand on my shoulder. I feel the woman's gaze follow his arm, up my shoulder, to my face. Her face is round and pretty, but with the hateful and disgusted grimace she is giving me now I would say it is beginning to age, and not well. She looks as if she has just stepped in dog shit, or more accurately, if she has just had it thrown in her face. The Elder continues speaking, ignoring the woman's wordless protest.  
  
This is Head Scribe Natalia Olin, niece of Star Paladin Henry Casdin. She will be lending her expertise in prewar technologies as well as her team of our best scribes in our efforts to locate and destroy the Institute. You will be assisting her in these duties, and I trust she will adequately instruct you in properly performing yours.  
  
At this introduction, she draws her lips into a thin line and stands straighter, as if attempting to loom over me. Even with this futile effort, I tower over her. This does not go unnoticed. With a click of her tongue and a flip of her carefully cropped hair, she gives a bright and none too sincere smile to the Elder.  
  
Of course, she says. Sol Scavver, that is all I need to know. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get to work. There is much to do.  
  
And with a swish of her robes she has disappeared into the airport with her gaggle of knights and scribes.  
  
The Elder seems to almost deflate at her leaving, pent up irritation and aggravation leaving him in a loud sigh.  
  
You seemed close, I say, hoping to make sense of the bizarre scene I had just witnessed.  
  
Yes, he says. She is my wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, your comments, critiques and questions are always welcome.
> 
> If you would like to see my writing process as well as motivations, inspirations, and other things, you can follow my tumblr at: sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my outline file got corrupted and all my entries for all my chapters was deleted. It was rough going rewriting everything but the roadmap is down again and to the best of my ability it will be followed. I apologize for the long wait and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Wife.

I had been one once.

In a way, I suppose I am one again, though of a fashion I had never known or desired to know. All I know is that I do not feel like one. I belong and yet I do not belong, needed but unwanted, defiled but with so-called sacred duty. It is in this situation that I am and that I will remain, if the first of the Elder’s wives has her way.

Head Scribe Natalia Olin must have her own inspections, her own examinations, her own procedures for me. She had told me the Codex demanded such things. I had no right to question her, nor did I wish to. I had heard of her brutality in those few days since her arrival. I had witnessed it.

The wife of the man has duties to carry out in this arrangement, she had told me cordially as she walked me to the Elder’s chambers more under orders than any request, and not all of them pleasant — but once they are over, they will be over. Let us get them over with, shall we?

When I saw a solemn Cade and a gruesome array of tools, when she had me strip and bound me to a chair, I knew that the not pleasant bits had been reserved for me.

She looks at me now with that sharp severity I have come to know of her, bent over low to look me in the eye. Hers are of the clearest blue, like sea ice from the purest glaciers, full of biting cold and sickening salt despite their striking beauty. They are smiling. Her hands, carefully manicured but calloused from wasteland hardship, hold my wrists down to keep me from struggling. The pain of it all is dizzying. Behind me, Cade is sawing away at my hair with a pair of medical shears. Tufts of my dark curls tumble over my shoulders to float gently to the ground alongside tears that won’t stop falling.

A falling lock catches my freshly branded chest and I groan at the pain of even the slightest touch, still reeling with the intensity of it. Steam has only just subsided. The winged sword of the Brotherhood is red and angry. Absently, Olin flicks it off to the ground, her long nail dragging like a talon across the newly seared flesh. I have to bite back a scream.

So, Knight-Captain, she says, there is no chance of infection?

No, ma’am. Not if we watch it. Despite the curtness of his voice, I feel his strange sort of kindness directed towards me. Despite shearing me clean like a sheep, his hands remain gentle and apologetic. Even in my examinations, even in describing my duties and how to properly perform them, he was sympathetic. Not helpful, but sympathetic. Only doing what is ordered. He had also refused to brand me. It didn’t matter though, she had been happy to. But still, seeing the last tufts of my pride falling from my scalp like autumn leaves, well. I think I will only remember those tiny gestures of his after the fact.

Good, she says. She releases me from her merciless grip.

I nearly jump out of my seat when I hear the scissors clatter onto the metal tray beside the hot metal brand. So it is finished. I touch a hand to my head and feel uneven stubble and skin beneath my fingers. Nate had always loved my hair and fought tooth and nail against all the styling I put into it. Sicilian curls, wild and natural, were horribly out of fashion in prewar America. Pristine, elegant, hand-shaped coifs and up-dos were what was accepted. Don’t trap that hair, he would say as we lingered before the mirror, burying his pale face into my hair, you should stay wild and free. Forever.

I bite back a sob.

Oh please, Olin rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. None of that. You’ll get no pity from me. You are here to do a duty, not indulge your prewar vanities. My husband and this entire ship has been far too lenient with you. In the Citadel, this would never have been tolerated from one of your station. As a Mother you are here to bear children for the Brotherhood and nothing more. Until that occurs you are just a resource of the Brotherhood to be exploited. Do not for one second!

As she pauses for emphasis, the door behind her begins to open, unnoticed by Olin. She has her back to it, all her attention focused like a cutting beam towards me.

Not for one second, think that you are worth anything more than that to my husband or anyone else on this airship. I do not know what you did to my husband and this crew to allow you access to sensitive information and technology. To give you such leeway to send an entire squad of our best soldiers off to their deaths. Perhaps I should have taken an eye or your tongue instead, for such a crime.

I do believe matters of judgment and discipline are for the Elder to decide, Natalia.

In the doorway stands the Elder, his stubbly face turned down into an ugly grimace. As Olin turns to face him, he sees me. His eyes widen at the sight of me. At the nakedness of me. At my shaved head. At the gruesome brand on my chest. At the look I give him, help me. His nostrils flare like an enraged bull, his face reddening and his grimace growing into a near feral snarl.

Olin, unperturbed by the Elder’s growing anger, brushes strands of my hair from her robe.

Oh, Arthur. How good of you to join us.

He strides up to her, his face in hers, his voice booming as I had never heard it before. Instinctively, I shrink back into the cold metal of the folding chair. The movement tugs at my burned flesh. Agony, agony, all is agony. I cry freely now, unable to do anything but watch the chaos unfold before me.

What have you done, woman?!

Nothing that is not within my rights, husband. In matters of Motherhood, it is the wives who are master. You have no say in this. The Codex—

You dare quote the Codex at me? I am the Elder!

And I am the Elder’s wife. She lets out the smallest of sighs, like a parent trying to explain something yet again to a spoiled child. She might as well be, she is nearly twice his age. He sees this, and if anything, it sets him off wilder.

I strictly forbade these practices back at the Citadel. How dare you go against my orders and conduct this, this barbarism!

Much has changed since you have left, Arthur, for you — she looks to me then, the ghost of hurt in her face — and for me. There is necessity in this barbarism as you call it, and you know it. If we do not mark what is ours, if we do not make it know that it is ours, how will it ever truly belong to us? A fertile woman is a resource to be taken, like any technology. The Brotherhood will surely die without soldiers to fill its ranks. We can’t have such valuable resources running off, now can we? The survival of humanity necessitates such practices.

Hrmph. He scoffs. Did you put a tracker in her as well, then? His lack of denial does not go unnoticed by Olin, and the corner of her lips turn up in the smallest of smirks.

Well, I do believe my uncle still has one for her, as he was expecting her for a Mother. Her voice drips with sarcasm, and the smugness of victory. If you wish me to radio him, I am sure he will be more than understanding and—

No, God—! Have some sense, woman! I forbade it, strictly forbade it, and yet you wait until I am away tending to my duties and subvert my orders and do this. How dare you. Wife or not, you openly defied my orders and mutilated this poor woman. Out of what, spite? Jealousy? For the hell of it?

He pauses.

Because she can have children while you cannot, perhaps?

Even I feel the blow of such a statement. Both of us look up to him. Cade had long since fled from the oncoming storm. Oh, how I wish I could have followed him. I feel the rumbling thunder in Olin as she struggles to find anything resembling a response. She looks at me then with unfathomable and irrepressible hatred, her careful countenance utterly shattered by her husband’s cruel blow. However, from the lack of tears or other immediate outbursts, it is not the first time she has felt it. She raises a hand as if to land a blow of her own. The Elder catches it easily, also evidently used to such blows.

Get out, he says, before I do what to you what you did to her.

With a huff and the slam of a door, she obeys. My guards follow her, taking their stations just outside.

Silence lingers between us then, or at least the closest to it. The Elder struggles to rein in his anger and steady his harsh, flaring breaths. I still cower in my metal chair, struggling to stop sobbing. It hangs heavily over us before I hear myself speak.

Why did you say that to her?

He turns to me then, the fire of his anger still very much in him. Seeing my nakedness and my brand, he turns slightly, clasping his hands, knuckles white, behind his back as he speaks.

She has done something I had explicitly forbidden, she flaunts it openly.

Not for my sake then, though I don’t know quite why I had even thought it had been. Or even considered it, considering where I am. Memories of him, of his bed, my nakedness — I quickly cover myself and my shame with my hands. But shame is not something you can hide, and mine especially so. It pulls and stings at my chest, at my heart, at my very soul. I stifle yet another sob.

What, do you feel bad for her? That doesn’t— he pauses, his own gaze finding the bed. He draws his lips into a thin line, understanding. With all the gentleness I had come to expect of him, he tosses my fallen robes at me and turns once more, staring straight ahead. Averting his eyes, I would suppose, in his own way.

I dress quickly, or as quickly as I can with my shaking hands and the agony of each and every movement pulling at my burned flesh, until reaching the buttons. The clasps fall and fumble in my fingers. Finally, I give up and collapse back into my chair. I feel as I have never felt before. A sense of helplessness, hopelessness, and shame that I would not wish even on my worst enemies.

The Elder frowns. He turns to bend down to me, fingers reaching for the buttons. I shrink back from him, my mind screaming incoherently. All that reaches my mouth, however, is the tiniest squeak of protest. His frown deepens at that and rather than trying again, lets his hands fall back to his sides. He walks instead to the opposite end of the table, sitting roughly in another of the folding chairs. He pulls a cigarette from his jacket, but before lighting it considers. He reaches for another cigarette, reaching across the table to me.

For weeks, if not months, such things have been forbidden me. Alcohol and cigarettes, chiefly. My addiction to both had gnawed away at me for far too long, and if I was not already crazy, the cravings and the withdrawals would soon do the trick. I reach for it instinctively, like someone dying in the desert reaching for illusory water. But I pause, my fingers still brushing the paper of it. The brand pulls at my skin painfully, my rough robes aggravating it with each movement. Your duty is to bear children, I hear Olin sneer as she brands me, and you will be nothing until you do so. Children, children, children. Aren’t cigarettes bad for children?

My other hand touches my belly, long since receded from my malnutrition and stress. I remember the bed.

Could there be a child there? A child made by the man offering— I feel sick suddenly, whether it was through the shock or the disgust or the shame I didn’t know and didn’t care. I whip my hand back to my mouth and heave violently. Nothing comes.

I see Shaun, dream-Shaun, grown and wearing Nate’s face. Who are you?

The offer a cigarette is immediately rescinded, replaced instead with a hand on my shoulder. Then another. He’s kneeling before me now, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes full of concern. It is oddly genuine and sincere, though perhaps simply for a belonging, for this resource, more than anything.

Are you alright?

I almost laugh at that. How long has it been since I have been alright? Had I ever been? No, I tell him through the tears. What do you think?

Are you ill? Should I call for Cade? I knew it was too extreme to do, that woman— in your condition, this could have killed you. She had to have seen that.

She may have liked that, I say bitterly.

I don’t doubt that of that woman. He spits out the word like poison. He pulls Olin’s abandoned chair to face me and takes it, leans towards me and clasps his hands before him as he speaks, as if in confessional.

I did not expect her to come here. Though for all the years I’ve been married to her, perhaps I should have expected it.

Years? He is no more than twenty, I must have heard wrong. I say nothing. He continues.

She and her uncle’s Outcasts were threatening to tear the Brotherhood and the Capital Wasteland apart. After… after Elder Lyons and the Pride were lost, I was Elder at sixteen. Youngest Elder in history and Elder of a broken Brotherhood and the last of the Maxson line. If I did not save the chapter, all that had been built by the Brotherhood and my family would crumble, gone forever. We could not afford to keep fighting amongst ourselves. So I reached out to Casdin and we compromised. If he was made Sentinel and if I married his niece, if we went back to the Codex, the Brotherhood would be whole again.

He clenches his jaw, hard.

So before I married his niece I retired the rank of Sentinel, honoring Sarah, and made him a Star Paladin instead. The Brotherhood returned to its original mission. Got my peace and a piece of his mind, for all it was worth, and I’ve had to try and keep that monster of a woman in check for the past four years for the sake of this peace. At the sacrifice of my own, I have done this. All I have done, all my life, has been for the good of the Brotherhood. I allowed Casdin to discontinue open recruitment and our outreach programs. I allowed that woman to reinstate the system of organized marriages and captive Mothers to replenish the ranks. I hated it, it was and remains a barbaric and cruel system for everyone involved. If I could change it, I would. I’ve tried to limit it. If I could throw that woman, Casdin and all those Outcasts out to the Wastes and have the Brotherhood still survive this hell, I would.

For all the weeks and months I had known him, I had never imagined the Elder to acknowledge anything other than his complete and utter power over all. A king does not bend the knee to anything, much less his queen. This pawn blinks back her surprise at such a statement and I think of the chess game these two must play with one another constantly, a game of militant politics and the gambling of the very future of humanity for the sake of ideals. Enemies as literal bedfellows. The lines in his young face and the weight on his shoulders, the constant armor and the constant guard, suddenly make sense.

I understand, and I almost pity. Almost.

So you tricked me into joining your precious Brotherhood, you took me for yourself and you, you raped me. All to spite her? To spite the Outcasts?

He flinches at that, as much as the Elder can bring himself to flinch. But I struck a nerve and damn, does it feel good. He is silent for a moment, digesting my words, hopefully seeing the truth in them.

It’s my duty. I had to. I did it for the Brotherhood, you must understand, for the sake of humanity—

Oh, did you. Did you. Well in your valiant quest to save what’s left of humanity, King Arthur, take care not to lose your own humanity. Oh, I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten, you already did. Listen to yourself. Listen to this whole damn place, look at your Brotherhood, your little cult you have following you, your demon queen who did this to me and who you hate so much. Listen to them, watch them, and know that you are one and the same. If my son’s life wasn’t on the line, I’d be first in line to blow this lead balloon and everyone in it straight out of the fucking sky. If this is the future of humanity, I hope it dies right here and right now. The world would be better for it.

He stands then, raising a hand as if to strike me. I would welcome it. Come on you little prick, prove me right. Hit me, show yourself what you are. But he freezes there, his hand frozen tense in the air, his gaze locked on me. On my robes in utter disarray, of my feet utterly buried beneath my stolen hair, of my eyes still bloodshot but defiant. The look of certainty ever-present in those steely eyes of his, that unshakable pillar of everything he stood for and fought for, that certainty and determination that defined him — it began to crack then. His hand falters for the briefest of instants, the ugly scar marring his face pulling down painfully into an awkward half-frown.

You’re not well, Sol. He said then, clearing his throat and clasping his hands behind him. His anger was there, but it was quiet. Muted. Drowned out by a sudden and lingering uncertainty. My words have struck him, though he would certainly be the last to admit it. You’ve been through quite a trauma today, so rest. … please. A cot will be brought in for you until proper quarters can be arranged.

In here? But won’t you and—

I expect you to be quiet when I am giving an order, he says curtly. Proper quarters appropriate for your station will be arranged, and until then and your duties can be performed in accordance with the Codex, I will find lodging for myself and my wife elsewhere. I have also assigned you to the logistics section. That woman should have nothing to say against it, considering that there is little to no risk to your person and that it is one of the most heavily guarded sections of the airport—

The airport?

Yes, if you would be quiet and just listen—

I won’t be stuck here again? I can go to the airport?

He looks at me then, his face even and expressionless. If I hadn’t spoken so harshly to him just moments before, I think perhaps I could have seen a smile from him then. In his eyes, though, there is a hint of that something I had seen when we had watched the sunrise. Against my better judgment and against all that I still respected in myself, I hoped to see that something again someday.

No. There is enough cruelty in what our duties entail to keep you prisoner aboard the Prydwen. An added benefit is that you will encounter that woman little, if at all, and you will also be in the company of a Knight Lucia and an Initiate Clarke, who I believe are your friends—

Thank you.

He snorts, amused. 

Just a minute ago you were calling me a monster.

I stand by what I said, I reply. But still... thank you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any comments or critiques feel free to leave them! Any and all feedback is great. :)
> 
> Things should be starting to pick up from here, so buckle up!
> 
> feel free to follow my tumblr at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a bit long. But oh, am I ever proud of it. Enjoy!

Today, a funeral is held.

Long overdue in the words of Olin, and she had quickly arranged it to be held in the airport’s courtyard. Those still waiting at the northern edge of the Glowing Sea were recalled and all efforts to search the Glowing Sea for the expeditionary team were halted. The Elder did not stop her. No one did.

The ceremony of it is still there, the military orderliness of it all, and I just want it to be over. A similar one had been held for my Nate before he had come back to me, cold and empty as his casket I had put in the ground. Back in Sanctuary, the folded flag they had given me still sits on the shelf. Another rests in my hands now, one of blazing orange, the same that the Paladin had prayed to so many weeks before. The Elder has handed it to me, his face set hard and eyes searching, meeting my own empty ones. As, well, whatever I was to these people — I was the closest to next of kin the Paladin had had. The Elder’s hands linger on the flag, upon my own hands, a small and silent I’m sorry.

Beside me, Haylen sobs.

The Elder moves to her then, handing the flag representing Knight Rhys to her shaking hands before moving on yet again. All in all, six receive flags for our fallen brethren. A seventh had long ago been presented, as Lancer Renner’s vertibird had gone down in recovery efforts some weeks before. His son Kyle Renner, red-eyed and face straining to hold back the ugliness of his own grief, holds a beaten bugle to his lips.

He plays.

We stand and render our salutes, our weakened Ad Victoriams, and the squire struggles to keep the notes even and clear through his stifled sobs. The notes hang heavy over us, hanging like the scythe of the reaper himself over us. Each stumbling and clumsy; human in their sorrow. While the light fades from sight, And the stars gleaming rays softly send, to thy hands we our souls, Lord, commend. The last note holds true and strong, one final somber breath of life before sputtering and halting weakly. The boy weeps openly now, as many of us do. Family and friends had been lost, truly lost, in the disastrous Glowing Sea mission. And now, only now, we had finally accepted it.

Olin steps forward now from behind the Elder, lifting her hands to the sky as she speaks her gospel Codex, commending the bravery of the lost souls and promising them immortality in the Scrolls. I think of Lyons, Sarah and her few paltry lines. How will Paladin Danse be remembered, will his words through mouthfuls be remembered, that goofy smile? Will anyone remember who he really was, or simply his name, his mission, and when he died? This stripping of humanity, could it even be considered humanity itself?

She continues, detailing what had undoubtedly been her ultimate intention, the redirection of the chapter. The reclamation of the wealth of technology in the Commonwealth and the continued survival of the Brotherhood are chief concerns, all else falls to the wayside. No longer will we follow dreams or visions, she says, but the undying and unwavering truth of the Codex.

We will not be led astray again, she says, unspoken.

She continues. I do not listen. Eventually she finishes, the Elder has a short speech of his own, and then it comes to an end. Those gathered stand and mill about, systematically putting away chairs. They are orderly and efficient, and even Haylen is among them, her tears wiped and mind set to work. I alone still sit, undisturbed despite the movement around me. I watch it all with a bored sort of interest, as the flag in my hands still weighs heavy in my mind.

Knight Lucia picks up a empty coffin, heaving the heavy, wet wood against her hip as she walks back to Logistics. There is no sense in burying empty coffins, Proctor Teagan had said matter-of-factly as we had painstakingly arranged and prepared for the ceremony, without a body to buried along with it. Initiate Clarke follows suit, retrieving the coffin that had been Rhys’. He stops to look at me for a moment, his eyes sad, before quickening his pace to catch Lucia. I know I should be helping, that I should pick up the coffin that belongs to the Paladin, and set it with all the nameless others. Footsteps and the banging and clattering of metal folding chairs is all about me, and slowly, it ebbs and fades. Footsteps in the snow die away.

Excuse me, says someone before me, I hope I’m not disturbing you.

Before me is the lean, hunched form of Paladin Brandis, his wrinkled face solemn but, somehow, kind. In his gnarled hands he holds a folding chair of his own. He looks to the flag held tightly against my chest, to the tip of that winged sword brand peeking just out of my robes, and after a moment of quiet thought sets his chair beside me. He sits in a slow, easy sort of way, his joints creaking and his uneven breath like clouds in the air. He simply sits beside me for a while, and in a way, it is welcome.

He was a good man, your Paladin. Brandis does not look at me, but to the lone coffin still sitting atop the helipad, slowly gathering a layer of snow. It’s not your fault, you know.

I look at him then, surprised.

I know him, that brave and good man who saved me, and through him I think I know you. He turns to me, his eyes wet with tears of his own, though unshed. He reaches over, placing a hand gently upon the Paladin’s flag, bring it gently down into my lap. He continues. He would want you to stay strong, as I do. No one deserves so much misery. Believe me when I say that there are those in the Brotherhood who feel the same. And, if I may... He leans closer to me then, carefully and with the air of paying respects, so as not to attract eyes. Beneath my flag, deep in my lap I feel his hands and I nearly scream at the suddenness of it. He claps his other hand over my mouth to stifle it.

I feel it heavy in my lap, heavy and unpleasantly cold.

Slowly, he pulls his hand away from the flag and leans in to me, his rough whiskers brushing my ear.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

He takes his hand from my mouth, and before I can even try to ask what on earth he had said, he has stood. He renders a cursory salute, the customary Ad Victoriam, and leaves. I sit for a moment trying to process what had just occurred, the meaning if there even was any, and the possibility that I had just been molested by a madman. I had heard what the Paladin had said about him, about finding him delirious in a bunker, violent and near insane. Hesitantly, I lift the flag and peer down in my lap.

Immediately I slam the flag back down.

In my lap, he has placed a pistol.

 

  
Hiding my newfound secret was no small feat. As much as I had wanted to rampage about, shooting anyone and everyone in the face for what they had done to me, somehow logic had remained in control. So I had buried it in a mountain of dusty boxes of potted meat that had gone untouched in the months I had been there. Within those stores it would be safe, as one of the few duties afforded me was accounting for the Brotherhood’s foodstuffs.

Knight-Sergeant Gavil did not wish to count babysitting the Elder’s breeder among one of his duties, and so had given me the duties which he deemed the least desirable and least hazardous to my person. And most importantly, the least likely to garner unwanted attention from the Elder.

After my being appointed as a scribe in logistics, the postings in logistics immediately became the least desirable in the entirety of the airport. The Elder visited frequently, checking on the status of supplies per his duties, but also went out of his way to ensure I was being given something to do and treated, in his words, with the respects due to one of my station. Was I being kept at an adequate distance away from any source of substantial radiation? Was I given duties avoiding heavy lifting or other significantly physical tasks? Was I given time for proper stretching and adequate rest? Had my skills as a prewar something-lawyer been properly exploited for the greater good of the Brotherhood? Was I being treated well by the other scribes and the guards?

Perhaps he had taken my words to heart and was attempting some bizarre form of kindness towards me. Most likely, he was avenging his wounded pride by making my life in logistics as thoroughly miserable as he possibly could.

Olin was blessedly absent. In her redirection of the chapter, she had ventured off into the wastes to establish new outposts and new supply lines to bolster our dwindling resources at the airport. She did not know of the Elder’s frequent visits to me. I did not look forward to the not if, but when she would find out.

Despite myself, I found my heart pounding and my thoughts racing every time he came by. Each time he would speak to me, suddenly words were lost with the crippling anxiety of simply seeing him. He had been intrigued by the first instance of my blubbering, my face reddening with anxiety and confusion. Perhaps mistaking my fear of being discovered for something else entirely, he kept coming back and attempting to elicit the same reaction from me. While the fear of him digging through the crates and finding my secret weapon dissipated with each visit, the sight of him nearly stopped my heart each and every time. He relished in it.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Don’t let the bastards wear you down.

But who was wearing down who?

I avoided the Elder at each and every chance.

Instead, I hide in my corner of the logistics bunker beside my caches of cram and stinking meats and old vegetables, fiddling instead with my pip-boy. In addition to cataloging just how alarmingly quickly we were running out of food, I had been assigned to sort through a massive backlog of unlabeled holotape recordings.

I had gone through many so far, a pile of them mounting ever higher as I listened and assigned labels to them. Most were hopelessly corroded and crumbled to dust in the player of my pip-boy, or were hopelessly shredded to pieces before they had even come to me. The Knights and the field scribes to them had become near careless in their collection of prewar artifacts. Many tapes were gathered as an afterthought to necessities such as food, water, ammunition, useful scrap to mend the growing holes in our perimeter wall. Other tapes were simply useless, such as prewar sentiments of some long-forgotten soul or nameless scavver.

The job had put me to sleep on multiple occasions. The last time it had done so, I had woken to the Elder staring back at me, deeply disapproving. Since then, I had been careful to stay very much awake. A bottle of Nuka-Cola lays drained on my desk beside the pile of tapes. My heart races, powered to a breakneck dangerous speed by the first rush of caffeine in literal centuries, but still my eyelids droop, my shoulders sag, weighed down by some invisible force. The tape plays into my dreams.

Wake up, Commonwealth!

The shake of my shoulder wakes me. The tape plays on in my pip-boy, quietly droning on something about synths and slavery as I look up into the eyes of Initiate Clarke. He’s smiling, a laugh hidden in those sad eyes.

Fall asleep again? Clarke shakes his head in mock disappointment. Well, go and get some rest. I’ve got next shift.

I nod, still groggy and unfocused from the sleep. Or, rather, lack thereof. With the absence of Olin, the Elder had returned to his chambers and had kept me in them. While he has not yet taken me as he had before, still, he has me lie with him as he sleeps. Each night I lie beside him, my heart once more pounding and my eyes wide and bloodshot and sleepless. Perhaps he’s doing it to stir up rumors that will make his wife’s blood boil. Perhaps he pretends that I am Sarah, or some other woman that might give him companionship other than those he already has, someone pleasant and someone he can be comfortable around. Perhaps he pretends I am someone to him.

Perhaps I already am.

Each night, lying next to him, I almost feel like I’m starting to turn into that imaginary woman. Feeling almost that we could all be happier if I was that woman for him. For this angry young warlord who knew only hate and endless war, how would his world change with any sort of kindness? How would he change? Sleep hadn’t come easily to me then, but eventually it had, fitful and full of unwanted dreams of love and affection for a man whom I hated.

Sol?

I have forgotten Clarke. I look up to him then, to thank him for waking me, to thank him for taking my shift, when I see it. My corner is empty. The potted meat has vanished, the Paladin’s weapon undoubtedly along with it. All of it, gone.

In an instant I’m standing, wide-awake and all too aware of the situation before me. Unable to hold my panic, I demand to know where the potted meat has gone.

His smile fades a bit, and he shrugs. Maybe raiders with stealth boys stole it.

While food stores had been steadily depleting, even more so in the past few days, I had attributed it to a few desperate souls unable to keep up with the stricter rationing. Few likely had any qualms stealing from my stores, as I still got full rations. For two, even. The potted meat had been used to feed Neriah’s molerats, but they had recently been slaughtered to feed the soldiers. They were untouched, on account that they caused horrible and violent food poisoning to any human who dared eat them.

I scowl, thoroughly unamused.

Okay, I know you’re in charge of food stores, but really? It was literally rotting in the corner. Who cares where it went?

I reply that if I fail in my duties, I will have to answer to the Elder and his wife for my failure. I’ll be little more than a walking womb once more. I run a hand through my short, raggedy hair as I pace the bunker, trying to piece together what might have happened. Clarke keeps talking, his voice getting higher and ever more frantic, undoubtedly as the gravity of the situation inevitably dawns on him.

People get sick from eating it, so someone probably just threw it away or something while you were working. The Brotherhood hadn’t used it for ages but kept holding on to it just to have it. The Brotherhood just does that, y’know? They take to take and have, and then it rots. Who cares if it got taken? Maybe it was taken so it could be used for the good of someone else. Maybe it was a good thing it got taken! The damn Brotherhood sure as hell doesn’t need it!

Wait. I turn to Clarke then. Immediately he recognizes his mistake.

Um, that is to say…

Clarke had been next in line to Knight before Olin had come and barred any new Knighthoods without her explicit approval. When the Elder had protested, she cited herself as representative of her uncle the Star Paladin, who had considerable say in the granting of promotions. At the mention of Casdin the Elder had backed down some, and a considerable probationary period had been placed on all not born into the Brotherhood. Clarke may have been able to stomach the slight if his best friend Lucia had not received her knighthood just days before.

Clarke, what did you do?

He is silent for a moment, looking at me. Narrowing his eyes, appraising me. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he speaks.

You know what? Let me show you.

I let out a deep and tired sigh, knowing I would have to answer for Clarke’s brazen idiocy. I was unable to do much else than that, as I saw little threat in any vengeance against the evilness of the Brotherhood when one’s sole tool was crates of potted meat. More than likely, he had hidden stinking bits of meat about the airport to torment the officers and guards. A harmless and stupid prank of a disgruntled soldier.

While my pistol was stashed inside the crates, Clarke had a rifle of his own, and no need for it. If even he had found it. He hadn’t brought it up. I could play along, get it back, hide it somewhere more trustworthy and permanent. And of course, none would be the wiser.

His face dark, he turns and strides off in the direction of the beach. I scurry after him. He speaks as he walks, his shoulders tensing and his fists clenching ever tighter as he walks.

Someone was bound to catch me eventually. I can’t keep this up forever. Threats and violence and bigotry, that’s all the Brotherhood knows. If anyone should know that, it’s you. You’ve seen it, experienced it firsthand. I joined the Brotherhood two years ago, before Olin restricted recruiting us wastelanders. In all that time, I never doubted our beliefs. Never questioned them.

So you stole five crates of potted meat?

He stops, turning back to me with such a look of incredulity on his face that even I am taken aback. I stop, raising a brow at him.

Yes, I stole them. The Brotherhood was my family. My life. But… it’s all wrong. Our rules, our beliefs… they’re lies. And I won’t put my trust in a lie. He pauses, looking up to me with utter disdain. Have you, you of all people, eaten up those lies? Who gives a damn if some rancid meat goes missing? No one cares! They don’t care about anything but themselves! No one cares about you or me, we’re not really Brotherhood. We’re slaves. We might as well be synths or… or ghouls! We might as well be ghouls for all they care. You’ve seen the way they look at us, how they treat us, because we’re from the Wasteland. Soon we’ll end up just like all of them, dead, slaughtered, massacred, unless we do something about it.

Clarke, what did you do—

Suddenly, a flash of light illuminates the night, sending an arcing star up across the bay to explode in the air. A flare of some sort, half a mile away. As the light falls and descends back into darkness, the distance erupts into laser fire. My heart sinks immediately to my stomach.

What did you do?!

Clarke stares across the water, immune to my yelling at him, my shaking him, my demands. The confusion is plain on his face.

That… I just took some meat to… He blinks against the night. That’s not me.

No, he’s right, it couldn’t be. I strain my ears, trying to hear anything carried across the water. The fire is too slow for Brotherhood or Gunner laser rifles, and there’s that popping bang that sounds so familiar.

Surely, it couldn’t be.

We watch the battle dumbly as my pip-boy drones on. The tape long since completed and the tinny sound of DCR singing out a wild piano backtrack to the muffled laser fire. The voice of Jerry Lee Lewis rises above the fearsome fortissimo, shouting goodness gracious!

A shrill whistling rings through the air, audible and chilling even at this distance. The far-off fort blooms with the signature mushroom cloud of a Fat Man round, illuminating an impossibly large and grotesque silhouette. It is thoroughly unfazed by the blow and advances on the firing line. Only the Brotherhood had easy access to such weaponry, and surely, any others who possessed such technology would be seen as an immediate threat to the Brotherhood. Such a threat would be immediately and thoroughly eradicated.

I immediately throw Clarke from me and run through logistics, past the empty guardposts towards the helipad.

We were not the only ones to notice the far-off battle. Chaos has erupted all throughout the airport. High above on the Prydwen, alarms wail and the searchlights of ‘birds and the airship itself alight in blazing glory. The vertibird taxi is just about to leave, heavy laden with armored guards ready and itching for a fight, and it leaves the ground with a jolt. Its landing gear retracts and it begins its lurching ascent, the roar of its rotors drowning out my shouting.

I can’t let it leave without me. I dodge the propellers, I dash towards the ‘bird and using what little muscle I have left on me, thrust myself into the air to grab a hold of the vertibird’s carriage. Still the ‘bird rises high into the air, me dangling from it with the barest of fingerholds. Each ragged breath, each kick of my feet as they try to find purchase on the slippery metal chassis, I feel them slipping. Further, further, I can finally hold on no longer. My fingers slide from the lip of the carriage.

A hand grasps me by the collar of my robes, then three more, bulky and strong in Brotherhood power armor. They hoist me up into the carriage and then a face is before me, her face a mixture of anger and relief. Knight-Sergeant Renner wraps me in her arms and lifts me to my feet, shouting something about me being impatient or something or other. Another transport would be coming to bring back support personnel to the safety of the Prydwen. As impressive as my leap onto the ‘bird had been, I was not one of those headed off to battle.

I tell her quite plainly that, in fact, I will be.

Renner frowns at that, but before she can ask for clarification, the ‘bird lurches into the landing bay of the flight deck, and just as quickly and inelegantly as I had boarded, I jump off. My ankle buckles under me and sends a searing pain rocking up my leg. But it does not stop me. Off I run, hearing the Knights yelling after me and the stomping of power armor feet. But no one chases me. There is no time, vertibird strike teams are assembling and Prydwen artillery is being fired up. Upon the flight deck, the Elder stands barking orders to those about him.

Here is my battle. And it is not one I cannot afford to lose.

Elder! I shout and run towards him, pushing asides those Paladins and Knight-Sergeants gathered to receive his orders. At the front of the gathering, I can see his hair is disheveled and his eyes ringed with dark circles. He had just rolled out of bed, but still, here he was. A commander. The commander’s commands catch in his throat at the sight of me, at the disrespect and disarray I had thrown at him carelessly barreling through his soldiers.

Sol, he says through clenched teeth, inside. Now.

The Minutemen are retaking, I reply, struggling to catch my breath. I waver as well, unsteady from the height and effort of such a run from logistics. Doubled over, I manage to gasp out the words. They’re retaking the Castle.

As we can very well see! He’s shouting now, face red at my insolence. He steps forward, towering over me. He takes me by the collar, yanking me up to face him. He is livid, nostrils flaring, the grip on my neck tightening with each word. The Minutemen have been plaguing our field and recon teams for months now. It will be good to finally wipe that rabble from the Commonwealth!

I think of Preston, of his kind smiles and his dreams of a better Commonwealth. Sturges making marvelous machines from junk and trash, his spark of imagination and ingenuity literally lighting up the shadows that had lingered for so long in Sanctuary. I think of the Longs, their first smiles in weeks as they coax precious life from a dead wasteland. Mama Murphy with eyes wizened and blind with age and hidden wisdom, an empty inhaler of jet in her lap, spinning fortunes from the smoke and the dreams. Your energy, it’s tied to this place, she had said through that dark, toothy grin, take care not to lose sight of it. The Commonwealth, it’s goin’ to need it.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

No, I say, I’m not going anywhere, Elder.

He draws his mouth in a thin line, looking from me to the soldiers staring wide-eyed at me. He waves a hand angrily, sending them scrambling to follow the half-orders they had received. Some stopped, looking back at us in confusion and surprise before continuing their work. Struggling to rein in his anger, he clasps his hands knuckle-white behind him, straightening his back and narrowing his eyes at me.

Is that so? Pray tell, why shouldn’t I order you dragged back into the Prydwen and thrown into the brig for such insolence?

Because you don’t have to destroy the Minutemen in the first place, you fucking idiot!

He bristles at that. Why is that, he says, flatly.

I know their General, and he is a good and just man. He only wants what is good for his people and good for the Commonwealth. Talk to him instead of blowing him up! He only wants peace!

He snorts.

Tell that, he replies harshly, to the knights and scribes and squires we lost in their ambushes on our field teams. Without any provocation, they have slaughtered our teams simply searching for food and supplies. You call this good and just? The Minutemen are wastelanders with weapons, out only for their own. They are an angry mob armed to the teeth, and above all they wish to destroy us! All of us! The only peace they want is one without us in it, and that is something I cannot accept. But you want me to let them take one of the most strategic and well-fortified points on the bay just because you think this man is good?

The words of Clarke echo in my mind. Threats and violence and bigotry, that’s all this Brotherhood knows. I do not and will not back down. I cross my arms over my robes, the movement tugging painfully at the winged sword at my collar. He sees this, though his resolve and his anger do not waver. I speak with the unwavering confidence of the woman who I had been, once. Perhaps, the one that is still there, somewhere.

Then stop thinking them a threat. Realize them for what they are. Wastelanders, as you say they are, armed and dangerous because they have to be. Just as the Brotherhood is, they struggle and fight to survive here in the Commonwealth. They’re scared and they’re hungry, and most of all they’re only human. The Brotherhood takes these supplies, this food, from them. And don’t you dare deny me that, I work for Proctor Teagan. I know about his little requisition orders. I know you’ve approved them. I know where we get what little food we have. What you’re running is a extortion racket on the entire fucking Commonwealth. Of course the Minutemen fight back against you, of course they want a peace without you in it, they’re a militia made up of the people you’ve threatened and stolen from!

His anger subsides somewhat, his face dark and thoughtful as he digests my words. I will hold his attention, I will stall as long as I can. This pawn’s gambit will take the king come hell or high water. From the distance of his gaze, from the wringing of his hands, my words hold some weight to him. If I can keep his attention long enough, perhaps, just perhaps, I can change his mind.

However, that steel and that resolve is still there, and in the distance I hear the stomping of power armor, the shout of ad victoriam! The battle for the Castle is about to begin. They wait only for the command from their King Arthur. He looks past me then, his jaw set and his eyes once again their usually steely gray. He pushes past me.

We will not allow the Minutemen this prize, we will avenge our fallen brethren and take what is rightfully ours! Ready yourselves, Brotherhood, for the battle to come!

It was too much to expect humanity from this monster, to think of him as something he wasn’t. Perhaps, Clarke was right. I spit at him, a gobbet of it landing on the hem of his jacket. It does not go unnoticed, and I am glad for it. As he turns to me, demanding to know what I had just dared to do, I unleash my vilest and dirtiest attack in my verbal arsenal at him.

Lyons would be disappointed in you.

Suddenly I am on the ground and my head slams against the flight deck grating, the world spinning and my face and neck screaming out in pain. He has struck me with all the force he could muster. I am half-surprised I am not unconscious, though I am quite close to it. I struggle to right myself, but his hand is on my head, pressing my face down into the grating.

You dare? You dare say that to me?

Through the grating, a see a dark drop gather on the metal and drip far, far below, to the airport. The grating has split my cheek. The height is dizzying, the blow he had given me moreso. But still, my resolve is equal if not more than his. I push my hands against the grating, fighting his hold on me with every fiber of my being.

Do you ever wonder, I say through gritted teeth, why your precious Brotherhood is so universally hated? Why you face opposition at each and every turn? From me, from the Minutemen, from the entire damn world? All you know — He presses me down hard, knocking the breath out of me. He demands silence, but no, he will have to kill me before he gets that. — all you know is violence. If you tried diplomacy for once in your fucking lives, maybe things would be different!

With a roar of anger, he takes me by the collar and wrenches me upright. My brand burns and screams at the movement, but if anything, it just fuels my own righteous authority. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

You asked me once if I thought you were a monster. Your actions today prove it. Have you ever even tried being anything else?

He sets his jaw, staring at me long and hard. The fire in those eyes rages ever brighter, this time in indignation. Again I have wounded his pride, struck at the very core of him. I stare back at him as the vision of him wavers before me. I have a concussion, maybe.

Fine. Fine, Sol, let us try your method of diplomacy. He looks past me, to the stunned crowd of soldiers at their stations, waiting for battle. He barks an order at a lancer, ordering a vertibird prepared for transport, his gatling readied. He turns back to me, letting go of me quickly as if I was some vile, poisonous thing. I wobble dangerously from it, having to catch myself on my rolled ankle. I suppress a groan as the pain rockets up my body, ringing deafening like a gong in my aching head. He grasps my wrist, steadying me, and drags me after him. He continues speaking.

You will see firsthand who your precious Minutemen really are.

In moments the vertibirds are detached from the flight deck, laden with knights and paladins all armed to the teeth. The flight is short, and we are upon the Castle in mere minutes. Far below I see that the great monster they had been fighting has fallen, its monstrous shell blackened and scorched by laser fire. All about it mill the Minutemen in their dusters and signature hats, their gait slowed and sluggish with the exhaustion of battle. One of them looks up and sees our approaching flight. He shouts something, his voice young and cracking, and raises his laser rifle. He lets loose a cranked shot, hitting the leading vertibird in its fuselage. The laser round bounces off of its metal belly harmlessly.

Another musket round is fired, then another. The Minutemen fire in a disorganized, chaotic volley. The Elder looks at me, a bitter smirk on his scarred face.

Do you not see, Sol? Without a shot fired from us, already they fight. Lancer, announce the attack—

I pull away from the Elder, stumbling in my swimming world across the carriage and stumble onto the lancer’s controls. My hands fumble for the intercom and I find it, shouting into the speaker.

Minutemen of the Commonwealth! We are the Brotherhood of Steel, and we come in peace! Cease your fire immediately! We wish to negotiate with your General! I repeat, we come in peace—

The Elder yanks me away, holding me painfully tight, arms locked tightly against my sides.

You have done enough damage here, woman, how dare you—

Sir, the lancer clears his throat nervously. They’ve stopped firing.

Impossible!

The Elder releases me, turning back to the opening of the vertibird. The fire has indeed stopped, and a minuteman stands on the ruined ramparts in a flowing white duster, his dark face upturned. The Elder stares down at him, narrowing his eyes. He does not look to us, but keeps his eyes locked to those of the distant General.

Take us down, lancer.

An incredulous, sir?

And relay to the flight teams to rain down hellfire at the first sign of trouble. Keep them in the air, ready and waiting. If this is some kind of trick, we will be ready for it.

Slowly, hesitantly, the lancer brings the ‘bird down inside the perimeter of the Castle. All around us are the faces of the Minutemen, visible now that the distance is gone. The first who had fired at us is a boy no older than fourteen. His right eye has been slashed out. He stares at us one-eyed, his musket still raised and pointed straight at the Elder’s head. However, he does not fire. The eye that remains in the boy’s face turns to the distance, waiting.

Negotiate, huh?

From behind the steaming corpse of the monster, General Preston Garvey walks towards the vertibird, his musket carried noticeably at the low and ready. His step is determined and confident, though still with the easy casualness that I remember of him. I watch him beside the lancer through the bubbled windscreen. He does not see me.

Elder Maxson, I presume? Quite the surprise to see you here, to talk no less, and not blowing us into space from the safety of your airship.

The Elder steps from the vertibird, landing with fearsome ease. He looks from the General, to the fallen monster, and then back to me. He extends a hand towards me, waving me towards him. But already I’m exiting the carriage, jumping to the ground and landing once more on my injured ankle. I stumble, but immediately I’m up again. Before me is Preston, my friend and ally, from before. Before the Brotherhood, a beacon of kindness and safety and humanity. I stare at him openly, drinking in his familiar features even in their careful scowl.

He looks to me then, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. I must look strange with my shaved head, my checker-marked bloody cheek, my eyes brimming with tears of joy. The Elder also looks at me wordlessly, but quickly turns his attention back to the General.

I have heard from an apparent friend of yours that you are a man of reason, and that you would be open to negotiation. That there is no need for further bloodshed this day. Am I incorrect in saying this?

No, says Preston, his eyes still on me, confused and searching, but who told you this? I have a hard time believing you would even consider not killing us all where we stand. I’ve heard of your Brotherhood, we all have seen what you’ve done. Why only now do you consider peace? Who is this friend? Bring them forth.

The Elder looks to me.

Preston, I say after a moment, the word leaving my tongue in a half-catching breath, half in disbelief and half relief. I step towards him.

Immediately he raises his musket, his hand cranking once, twice, three times. The minutemen ready their rifles, pointed all at me. They gazes are hard, hateful.

Halt, or I fire!

Now more than any other time do I feel the brand upon my chest, burning not into my flesh but my very soul. I feel the Elder’s eyes on me as well. He did not so much as move to stop me. For a moment, I think that perhaps the Elder had been right, and time had hardened the Minutemen, erased everything I had ever known about them. Perhaps longing for the past had sweetened my memories of it, recounting only the best of it or even distorting it all. Perhaps the Minutemen weren’t who I had thought.

A tear rolls down my cheek. I stop as he orders, standing instead just a few paces from the vertibird, staring mournfully at the man who had once been one of my closest friends. He stares down at me through the scope of his rifle, unmoving and unwavering. He does not recognize me. When I finally speak, my voice shakes and trembles with the effort of it.

Preston, it’s me. It’s… I pause. Does he remember the name that is not my name, the one I had given to the Paladin? Does he only remember the woman who had been before? Does he even remember me at all? I swallow the growing lump of despair in my throat. I look back to the Elder, to the Minutemen surrounding us with weapons at the ready to vaporize me, to the vertibirds hovering far above. The moon and stars shine high above, brighter then they had ever been before the war.

The voice of Shaun and Nate are among them, asking, demanding. Preston’s joins them then, physical and real.

Who are you?

It’s… it’s Sol, Preston.

He does not move.

I’m the woman who saved you from Concord, who almost died fighting the Deathclaw. Who helped you rebuild Sanctuary, who helped you rebuild the Minutemen! You promised to bring me to Diamond City to find Shaun, and you fulfilled that promise. I come to you as a friend, again, Preston. I would never mean you harm, not ever, you know that. I and the Brotherhood have come as friends to the Minutemen. Please, Preston. Don’t you remember me?

Slowly, his musket is lowered and beyond the wide brim of his hat his eyes widen, lips parting in disbelief. They mouth the name that is my name, unable to find words. The musket falls to his side, then to the ground in a clatter. His minutemen look between each other and then to their General. They step closer towards me, their muskets ready to fire.

Sol. The name that is now my name is clumsy on Preston’s tongue, unfamiliar, but still he knows to use it. Sol, I thought you were dead. We all did.

He steps to me then, arms extended to embrace me, a smile of exuberant joy broadening on his weary face.

Before he can reach me, the Elder is beside me, a pistol aimed at the General. His free hand is on my shoulder, fingertips brushing the raised brand upon me. Marking me. Seeing this, Preston stops, looking from the Elder to me and back again. His smile falters.

That is far enough, the Elder says gruffly. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw set in anger.

Preston matches his look.

So. This friend of mine is your prisoner, then.

The Elder is markedly silent, his eyes never once leaving those of the General. The General smiles grimly, looking and whistling an unknown command at his men. One of them vanishes into the depths of the Castle. The Elder’s frown deepens at that, but he does not move.

Well then, negotiations will be interesting, I guess. Preston crosses his arms and lets out a resigned sigh. But I can’t afford any more bloodshed. My men are tired, and I know for a fact yours are starving. We can, perhaps, come to an agreement. First, perhaps a exchange of prisoners can be arranged.

The Elder bristles, stepping from me to approach the General, his thumb switching off the safety of the pistol. You hold my men? Release them, and then we’ll talk.

The General shakes his head. You’re not very good at this, are you, Brotherhood? It doesn’t work that way. How do I know you’ll keep your end of our bargain?

You question my integrity?

I question anyone who keeps slaves and steals and slaughters my people. If that particular woman wasn’t standing next to you, I don’t think we’d even be having this conversation. You and your men would be dead, your airport reduced to rubble.

The Elder outright laughs at that. You think you are any match for us? If this particular woman wasn’t standing next to me, your little militia would have been dead before you even knew we were coming.

Perhaps, perhaps not. But, anyway, here we are.

The militiaman returns, a suit of incredibly corroded power armor clomping behind him. It looked almost like the T-51 I had worn in my fight against the deathclaw, but no. This model was newer. Familiar. T-60. A fat man launcher is seated atop its shoulders, also hopelessly rusted. The armored man stops in his tracks at seeing us. The General nods towards the armored man, then looks back to the Elder.

A friend of yours for a friend of mine. A show of good faith. Then we can talk further, perhaps arrange for you to stop killing innocent people. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince my men not to avenge their murdered families and friends. We’ll just have to see, I guess.

The Elder narrows his eyes at the armored man in the distance, at the armor, at the launcher mounted to it. At the bizarre familiarity of it all. The armored man steps closer, then approaches at a jog. He stops before us, beside the General, and removes his helmet.

My heart nearly stops.

Elder, says the Paladin, what are you doing here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any comments or critiques feel free to leave them! Any and all feedback is great. 
> 
> A bit long and a lot going on, but hey, what a chapter. ;)
> 
> feel free to follow my tumblr at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably shorten these chapters. Gosh, they're getting long. But anyway, please enjoy the chapter!

I remember Nate, when he came back to life, had looked more like a corpse than the man I had married. He had been captured and tortured by the Chinese. For months. They had taken his leg and they had taken his very soul. I remember trying my best to bring him back, to be sweet to him and cherish him as I had done before. His hair grew oily and fell out in clumps, his face grew haggard and unshaven. If he was not sitting catatonic, he was trying to kill me. His mind was gone, replaced by endless torment in some Chinese prison camp. I remembered as I had packed my bags to leave him thinking that the dead were better off staying dead. Oh, I hated myself for saying it, but after trying to kill me and smother Shaun to stop his wailing, well. It had been the truth at that point.

But this.

I stare at the man before me, this man brought back to life, the Paladin speaking hushed now to the Elder. He does not look at me, in fact, he does not seem to notice me. A blessing, truly, as I cannot stop staring at him.

Preston walks to my side, taking advantage of the distraction. It’s good to see you, he says quietly.

I murmur that the feeling is mutual, though my eyes do not leave the Paladin. Despite the horrible corrosion of the power armor and the deep claw marks I see now dragged across his back, the Paladin does not look any different than he had the day he had left. For all the radiation he had to have taken, for all the starvation he had to have faced in his weeks of complete and utter isolation, absolutely nothing about him had changed. The piezonucleic upgrades and the X-111 serum must have been a miraculous success to have sustained and preserved him so well, but part of me felt something was wrong.

For all he had gone through, he still looked perfect.

Preston sees my gaze locked on the Paladin and speaks. You got that right. Same man who took you to the Brotherhood, that same Paladin. One of our patrols found him on the eastern edge of the Glowing Sea near Somerville Place, near dead with exhaustion and rad sickness. We pumped him full of RadAway and, well. We got him back on his feet in no time. We thought he would be a good bargaining chip, if this situation ever came to be. And so it did.

I think back to his words before, of Minutemen killing Brotherhood, and look at Preston. His face is harder and darker than I remember, lined with exhaustion and the weight of horrible experiences. His smile isn’t quite there, as happy as he is to see me, and even to me he remains closed off and cautious. The brand of Brotherhood upon me has never hurt so much.

I swallow back the uncomfortable lump growing in my throat.

How long ago did you find him?

Two weeks ago, maybe? He got up and around in a few days, then after that he wouldn’t stop asking to repay us. He, ah, really surprised us with that one. Preston chuckles, smiling almost fondly at the Paladin. He went and helped us clear out a bunker full of gunners, even got the weapons we needed to retake the Castle. We ended helped out the boys at Somerville, too, since the gunners had been extorting them for food for years at that point. And now, well. It turns out we would’ve died here if not for your Paladin.

Yes, I say absently, feeling a bit bad for only half-listening to Garvey and his talk of settlements. But only a little. My mind remains on empty coffins and folded flags, of men risen from the dead pristine and perfect. Even with all we had given him and his team, if he had even emerged alive he should be looking more like a ghoul than anything even remotely human. Perhaps being born postwar, he had a natural resilience? Perhaps all that we had given him had actually worked? A thousand and one questions run through my mind, but only one makes it to my lips.

Were there any others with him?

No, only him. He says that his team was killed early on, and he was nearly done in himself by a super mutant. A good fighter and a good man, this guy. If he weren’t wearing the wrong uniform, I’d ask him to join the Minutemen in a heartbeat. Speaking of which, what are you doing in the Brotherhood? I thought you were going to that detective in Diamond City.

Nick. His golden mechanical eyes shine before me, robotic and unmoving as Kellogg’s voice emits from his mouth. Unreal, synthetic, manufactured. Nick was not a he, not after that. Detective loaded into him or no, the thought of him made me shudder. I quickly change the subject, informing him that the Brotherhood had better options available to me, and that they had promised to help me find my son.

Preston is silent for a long moment. He looks up at me, at my shaved head, at my bloodied cheek.

I hear they take women as slaves.

The Paladin and the Elder have finished their conversation and are quickly approaching. The Elder still has his pistol, at his side now, but his sights are set on Preston beside me. Narrowed and aiming, suspicious and dangerous. His step broadens, quickly out-pacing the Paladin. I step from Garvey then, onto my bad ankle and I have to stifle a groan. But I do, and I speak quickly. Loudly.

… The Brotherhood is the best for me right now. They’re still my best chance at finding Shaun.

Preston is unconvinced. He turns to the Elder, returning his cold gaze with one of his own.

So. Shall we exchange prisoners and get on with these negotiations of yours?

You heard the woman. She herself says she is no prisoner, and Danse tells me that his debt to you has been repaid. It seems that all that remains is negotiations, which will have to wait until another day. Paladin Danse must return to be inspected by our own medical team and debriefed. And besides, you have many wounded to tend to. Our show of good faith will be letting one another live another day.

Preston frowns, but does not object.

At this small victory, the Elder smiles smugly and turns back to the waiting vertibird. The Paladin follows without hesitation, though after a few steps looks back at me and gives me that goofy smile of his. I had missed that smile. But now, I felt unnerved. The Elder also looks back, beckoning me back to me with an impatient flick of a finger.

Instead of following immediately, I turn to Preston and throw my arms around him. I hold my friend tightly, trying to relay through a simple touch all the worry and all the love I had sent their way all these months. He returns it easily, placing the smallest of kisses on my cheek. He laughs outright at my surprise.

Mama told me to give that you when I saw you next. She probably knew you’d make that face.

I feel eyes upon me, those of the Elder most of all.

I… I have to go, Preston. And please, negotiate with him. Try.

Preston sighs, resigned, and nods thoughtfully. I’ll try, that sigh says without words, and waves me off. I follow after the two hulking Brotherhood men as they clamber into the carriage of the Vertibird. The Elder bends down to one knee, offering me a hand in mounting the vertibird.

Hesitantly, I take the Elder’s offered hand. He nearly wrenches my arm from its socket as he hauls me up into the vertibird, sweeping me into his arms tightly. Almost painfully so, as if the slightest relaxation might keep me from vanishing. I feel his beard on my shoulder and prickling my ear like needles, his hot breaths against the winter night puffs of carefully restrained anger.

I don’t know when he releases me, but he does, and even before the ‘bird actually takes off I am dizzy. My heart is racing. I have to catch myself on the handrails to keep from tumbling over. The Elder turns from me to speak to the Lancer, announcing to his squadron still hovering above to return to the Prydwen. The flight crew begins is preparations for takeoff.

I look to the Paladin at my side to find him staring back at the Elder.

When I notice him, he immediately turns from me. He looks quickly back at the Minutemen and their general, his face unreadable. His stature is ever tall and proud, his eyes locked forward.

I had imagined our reunion in a thousand and one ways, but never did I think it would happen like this.

I do not look at him and he does not look at me.

Instead I look out at Preston, giving him one last wave as the vertibird starts up its rotors. He returns it with a sad sort of smile before turning to retrieve his musket. It might be the last time I see him for all I know, as he turns and vanishes into the Castle with his Minutemen. The castle looks dark and forlorn, the broken bodies of men too young and too old scattered all about the great beast.

Then from the loudspeaker comes the Elder’s voice, resounding over the bay and through the night like the voice of God.

Know today the mercy of the Brotherhood of Steel, pray that you find it again tomorrow.

 

 

  
That night, I sit at the spot that has become usual for me. I sit across from the Elder, a checkered battlefield laid before us, makeshift soldiers of plastic and wood fighting battles we ourselves could not. It has become usual to play such games when our duties are completed. Oftentimes, he has the board set by the time I return from the airport. It has become usual also to see him there, his armored battlecoat hung neatly at the foot of the -- our, bed -- seated casually at the table, a glass of whiskey twirling slowly in hand. We would play in a comforting silence. No illusions between us of our situation. No friendly how are yous or how were your days, no.

There is none of that for us.

Now as he sets the board, the silence between us now is in near unbearable. A million and one questions linger after the situation with the Paladin and the Minutemen, and the exhaustion and strain is plain on the Elder’s face. Still, he takes the chessboard from its spot in the cupboard and carefully sets it.

The gentle tap of pieces against the wooden board reminds me of steady footsteps. Footsteps, just a few until I reach the Paladin just down in the hall resting in sick bay. The same Paladin who had brought me here, the same Paladin who had brought me to be a bride. His, at first. I had hated him for it. A betrayal I had been blind to for so long, but against all that was in me I couldn’t hate him. He was the same Paladin who brought me gifts and news from the Commonwealth, the same Paladin who brought me a glove and offered to teach Shaun to play baseball. That same glove lay beside the flag I had been given to represent him.

This dead man come back to life, I need to see him. Is it true? Am I simply dreaming? Is it truly him, the Paladin? My friend? I have so much, too much, to ask. I need to know. What had the Glowing Sea been like? What had really happened to his team? Had he found Virgil? Did they have a route to the Institute? My mind was racing, the calm brought my our usual routine dashed to pieces. I fidget in my seat. Impatient.

Elder, I say. You don’t have to do that. It’s late.

He says nothing and simply places the last piece in its place before sitting back in his chair with a sigh. He gestures to the board impatiently.

I let out a sigh of my own and I move a pawn two spaces forward. He moves his. I move a piece, he moves a piece. There is none of the usual thoughtfulness in any of it, none of what had become familiar to me. The presence before me, hanging over me, is heavy and unbearable. Finally, as I move my white knight to take his castle, I set it back in its place. I can’t wait any longer.

Can I go see him?

He draws himself up in his seat and leans his scarred face against a fist, his eyes locked on the untaken castle. Slowly, they move to the white knight piece still in the tips of my fingers, then to me. His eyes show his displeasure at the break in the usual, though none of the anger or fury I had expected of him. Instead, he simply sighs.

The Paladin just returned from the Glowing Sea, he tells me, perhaps the most irradiated place in the entire Commonwealth. That radiation killed his entire team, and if Knight-Captain Cade is to be believed, very nearly killed him. Being near him before proper medical treatment can be administered could be detrimental to your health.

You don’t want me to see him.

No, he says flatly, I don’t. But.

I look at him.

I won’t stop you if you go. He was yours before I— he touches a hand to his head, obscuring his face. Go. Just, go.

I am not sure if I heard right. But when I stand and walk to the door, he does not stop me. When I open the door to the Elder’s quarters, the guards do not stop me. The sudden granting of such a freedom is alarming, and I find myself looking back to the Elder, half-expecting it to be some sort of trap for me.

Yet he sits in the same chair, his tired face resting against his hand, his gaze on the chessboard before him. He does not move to stop me. He does not look at me.

I take no second glance and in an instant I am past the ladders and down the hall. I stand now in front of the infirmary. They have placed upon the doorway curtains of plastic plastered with radiation symbols, though I know whatever type of radiation damage caused by the Paladin was miniscule at most, and most of all already done. If he was half as irradiated as they thought he was, he would be more ghoul than anything even recognizably human. No, this was simply a measure to keep people out.

There were other dangers there, these signs said. Unknown. Invisible, but all too there.

I find myself hesitating in front of this barrier that is no barrier. What should I say to him when I see him? Hello, Paladin, it’s me. Sol. How have you been? I nearly kick myself at that, I had imagined myself talking to him again time and time again in the weeks of his absence but now, now when it really mattered, my carefully curated words have flown from me.

Instead of finding my words, I march off to the chow hall. It is quiet, only a skeleton crew consisting of those not mobilized for the attack on the Castle would man the Prydwen tonight. Even the mess hall, a bustling center of activity and relaxation, is empty. It is late and all is quiet. Even the mess sergeant, near ever-present, has gone to his bunk.

However, behind the counter, I hear an almost animal snorting and snuffling. Something was in the Prydwen’s food stores. Cautiously, my hands balled into fists and at the ready to strike whatever or whoever it was, I look over the counter.

Squire Renner stiffens upon noticing me, a half-eaten box of Fancy Lads laid bare in his frozen hands. He’s squatted over a pile of them, sticky sugar coating his hands like snow. The cakes fall from his hands into the damp cardboard and pastry papers at his feet. His mouth, stained with frosting, parts wordlessly as he struggles to find an excuse, or any word for that matter. Slowly, his eyes begin to glisten with tears of shame.

Kyle? I rush over to him, gathering him in my arms before he could begin to cry, Kyle, are you okay?

It is my voice that finally lets loose his tears. His incoherent wails are muffled into my robes, and his small hands grip and grasp at my back tightly, desperate for someone to hold. I simply hold him, smoothing back his hair and patting his back, letting him cry. Eventually, words break through the sobs.

I was so scared! Mom went to fight and I didn’t even get to say goodbye! What if she… what if she ended up like dad?

I hug him as tight as I can, remembering my own grief at Lancer Renner’s passing. I lay my cheek against the crown of his head, holding him and doing my best to comfort him. There’s so incredibly little of him, he’s skin and bones, no wonder he was stuffing himself. The rationing was getting worse with every day. And if Clarke was behind it all, if he hasn’t just taken the potted meat and my goddamn pistol, if he was responsible for all of this…

Tomorrow. I would deal with it tomorrow.

I pull away from him and with my thumb wipe away his tears. I smile at him, trying to hold back tears of my own.

Kyle, would you like to help me out with something? I was thinking of making some Blamco for the Paladin. I don’t think he’s eaten yet tonight. Would you like to help me?

The boy bites his lip, wipes away his tears, and nods.

The process is quick and quiet. Since I’m in charge of the Brotherhood’s food stores and being the only one aboard expected to eat for two, I feel no qualms about using an entire box of Blamco. Kyle calms as he stirs the pot gently with a spoon, even smiling a little watching the bubbles burst to the top of the boiling water. His smile broadens when he’s allowed to lick the gooey, cheesy spoon after I ladle a pile of Blamco into two bowls. While he’s busy cleaning the spoon, I quickly scrounge up every scrap of fancy lads evidence and stuff it into my robes.

Can you help me carry these to the infirmary?

… we’re not supposed to go in there. The Paladin is sick. Knight Captain Cade says we could get sick, too.

I smile a bit sadly. I suppose he is, though the Elder told me I could go visit him. Thank you though, for helping me. Why don’t you get to bed? It’s late.

You’re not going to tell on me?

No, Kyle. Remember? We have to look out for each other. I’d never tell on you. Just don’t go doing it again, alright?

He lets out a huge sigh of relief, and for perhaps the first time since his father’s vertibird went down, he smiles. Quickly and quietly, he vanishes up the stairs to the squires’ racks. Letting out my own sigh of relief, I walk with my bowls of Blamco to the infirmary.

Upon the furthest bed, strapped to all sorts of makeshift meters and wires and fluids, lies the Paladin. He is shirtless, thin blankets obscuring anything further. His eyes are open, sleepless, and almost instantly find me. He lets out a noiseless chuckle at the sight of the Blamco. I approach him, my feet airy and light upon the tile.

I thought you’d be hungry.

Yes, perhaps a little. He takes my offered Blamco and sets it beside him. He looks at me, to my shaved head, to the large bloodied bandage on my cheek, and sighs. Quickly, I try to cover it with a hand but his hand takes mine suddenly. His face is grave.

The Lady Maxson is here, isn’t she. Did she do this?

Yes, she is. I withdraw my hand and draw a chair up to sit beside him. He says nothing more and simply looks at me. I clear my throat and quickly eat a forkful of Blamco. It feels dry on my tongue. After I swallow, almost struggling at it, I continue.

The Elder was the one who did this, I point to my cheek. When I asked him to negotiate with the Minutemen, instead of destroying them.

He laughs a bit at that, hollowly. Sol, you’re not one to ask anything. Especially not to the Elder.

Yeah, now that I think about it, I mostly do just yell at him… but, Paladin. You were gone so long. What happened?

He lets out a sigh, looking away.

It’s almost difficult to remember, he says. I don’t want to remember it. But.

He looks at me then, his eyes sad but dry. He had done his mourning them long ago.

From the beginning the mission was set for failure. Even with our upgrades, our geigers were off the charts at even the outskirts of the Sea. All manner of monster accosted us at every corner. Ferals, radscorpions, deathclaws. We had just stumbled into a half-buried building full of ghouls when we were forced to radio for emergency evacuation. A ghoul had torn the lining of Rhys’ power armor. He would die in minutes if we didn’t get help. All we got was static. Rhys… he died there. We had to leave him there, for the ghouls.

He continues, relaying horror after horror until finally he reached the Glowing Sea. He speaks of people able to withstand the barrage of rads, even such a deluge as the one sustained in the Glowing Sea. He called them the Children of Atom, a religious sect worshiping atomic power itself. By that time, he was the only one of his squad remaining and his food and serum supplies were running dangerously low. They directed him to an affront to Atom, a Virgil lurking in a nearby cave. Upon reaching the cave, he was immediately attacked by a heavily armed super mutant who had taken over Virgil’s laboratory. He barely survived after killing him, scrounging up what he could find in the lab for food, supplies, and any and all intel on the institute. Most of what could be found were scribbled over in what looked to be crayon by the super mutant.

I let out a sigh of relief at that. So there was at the very least something, Virgil had indeed been there, and the Paladin had come back alive.

He had stumbled back east, as going back the way he had come was exceedingly dangerous, and eventually reached a radio tower that could possibly penetrate the Sea. He hailed any and all Brotherhood forces to extraction. A few minutes later, a vertibird careened down through the haze to crash and explode. He never found its pilot. He wandered, lost, and collapsed soon after that. He woke up in Minuteman custody.

And I’m sure you know the rest from there. The things I recovered from Virgil’s cave will be at my debriefing tomorrow, if I’m cleared medically. He gestures to the mess of wires and tubes running out of him and gives me a small smile. And while the Blamco is a nice gesture, Scribe, I’m not supposed to eat until the tests are completed in the morning. And it’s getting late, you should get back to the Elder.

His words hit me as if he had struck me.

I don’t want to go back to him, Paladin. Danse.

Scribe—

Why are you being so distant? You were the only person I had before I left. Even after you made me whatever I am, a slave, a wife, a Mother, whatever your Brotherhood calls me — you were all I had. Why, Danse? Why are you doing this to me?

He stiffens, his jaw clenching at my words. I have hurt him too, I see in my eyes, and in a masochistic and horrible way it feels good. I want him to feel what I’ve been feeling these past weeks. But then, remembering all he had gone through in that same time, I bite it back and feel a tidal wave of shame wash over me.

I’m sorry, Sol, he says at last, his words carefully chosen in their deliberate slowness and clarity. After Lyons, after Cutler — The Brotherhood is all I have left. All I will ever have. You’re my friend, one of my dearest, but… I just can’t be what you’re looking for. I can’t help you escape, I can’t free you. I’m sorry. The Elder will treat you well in time, I promise you.

I’m too stunned to reply, and seeing it, he gives me a sad smile and places a large hand on my shoulder. It feels cold.

You should get back to him now.

 

  
I don’t know when or how I got here, but I am standing once more before the door to the Elder’s quarters. There are no guards. Without a word I open the door and sit in my usual spot at the usual table, the chess pieces still in their usual places. The Elder is even in his, eyes red and focused intently on me.

He waited for me.

I told you not to go.

I just shake my head and grip the white knight in my shaking hands. I move it to the black castle, knocking over several pieces in the process. The Elder takes my hand in his then, stopping me. His hands are warm on mine, pleasant, almost. I look up at him then, at his harsh, boyish face made gentle with fatigue.

Sol, it’s check. The game’s over.

Oh. I almost laugh at that. Another break in the routine, he’s beaten me in a game a chess. But there’s no gloating in him, no immediate joy. He looks at me, visibly worried, his hands on mine and filling me with his impossible dragon’s warmth. I hate it and I love it, I want him to leave me and I want him to hold me forever.

Are you okay, he asks.

What do you want? I answer him instead with a bitter smile. You won.

He is silent for a long moment, remembering our little game of favors and rewards for the victor. I had been racking up little freedoms one after the other. Airport visits, more duties to fill my day, a new robe, a new pair of eyeglasses — even if the prescription wasn’t quite right. Never had he won, never had he asked anything of me. He had demanded, he had taken, but never had he asked.

Finally, he releases my hands from the board, scattering the pieces all about the table and the floor. They go ignored, some even trampled as he makes his way towards me. He bends down to me, taking my hands once again in my lap, looking me in the eye.

I’d like you to stay by my side. And, if it’s within your power, to forgive me.

I blink back my surprise.

For doing what I’ve done to you, how I’ve hurt you, the Motherhood, and… he glances back at the bed, frowning. In all you’ve said in me these past few days, everything you have said has been right. You’ve shown me this, I’ve seen it from the horrible things I’ve done to you. I know what I have done is unforgivable, terrible and monstrous. You were right to call me what you did, and you were right in guiding me to negotiate today. I need you, Sol.

A thumb traces the lines of my hand, and this simple touch sends electricity running up my whole arm. My heart is racing, my face flushed and hot. A ragged breath escapes my lips as they struggle to form a response. He continues.

I know how selfish it is to ask this of you, after all that’s happened to you and all I’ve done to you, but I feel that I’ve gone astray. I also feel that if you are the one guiding me, as frustrating as we are to each other, I believe… perhaps in the end we can all be better for it.

It is selfish, I say at last, looking back up to him.

His lips draw into a thin line.

But I won’t say no. It’ll take some time but… my voice trails, dying and giving way to to our usual, easy silence. His hands on me feel nice. I think for a moment, feeling those hands on mine, as I feel my fingers reach to hold his in turn, how lonely I have become. How lonely he must be, all of his twenty years on this atom-blasted Earth.

We have no one, and if we do not learn how, we can not even have each other. The brand upon my chest pulls as my heart races, and the broken skin on my cheek stings as it pulls into the slightest of smiles. My smile broadens at the sight of his own, a little lopsided, the scar on his cheek tugging awkwardly at it. It was then I realized just how beautiful his eyes were, and how much I liked to see him smile.

You’re tired, I say quickly, you should rest.

He stood then, out of habit smoothing out the wrinkles of his flight suit. Yes, he said somewhat absently, yes, I should. As if he were in a dream. Perhaps it all was. Is.

I hope it is.

I crawl into my side of the bed, and he follows. His back is to me as it usually is, though tonight it doesn’t seem as daunting, as frightening. The exhaustion of the day begins to overtake me, and in my tiredness and the night chill I sidle closer to him. My chest against his back, feeling his warmth, his breath, taking in the musky smell of him.

He says nothing to this, and does not protest. Instead he rolls over, taking me in his arms and holding me to him. After a moment, he lets out a held breath, as if he had been expecting the worst. Perhaps, if I were any less tired, he should have. Instead, I relax into him, simply enjoying the feel of being held again. Even by him. Or, perhaps, especially by him.

I feel his beard brush my forehead, his lips.

Then I fall, fall, fall, far into oblivion. Peaceful, tranquil, asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Any comments, questions or critiques are more than welcome.
> 
> Also, feel free to follow my tumblr for all things IH2BU and other writing inspiration at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!! 50+ kudos and over 1000 hits? Holy cow. You all are amazing. Thank you so much for reading my story!
> 
> I've worked hard to make this a good chapter and finally address some of the things you all have been wondering about. I rewrote it more than a few times to get it just right. Things are moving along!
> 
> ***** TW: violence, harsh military punishment of a child *****

It is nice to be held. To be held in the arms of another, to be held in such a state of disbelief of having being held in the first place. It is a novelty, a thrill, to once again be held.

When I wake to find myself in his arms, to find him shielding me from the early morning chill, to find his steely eyes gazing into mine, my heart races. Oh, what a thrill it is, to be held after so many months of crushing loneliness. The nearness of him, of anyone, sends my heart racing.

You’re awake, he says evenly. Almost carefully, as if combating that same intoxicating high of holding. Fighting desperately to keep a hold of reason. He doesn’t move his arms or avert his gaze, and simply enjoys the moment a while longer.

Secretly, I am glad for it.

After another stolen moment, and then another, we yet linger. Like a lazy Sunday morning we simply lie, half-awake in a dreamy and pleasant sort of way. I half expect Codsworth to enter at any moment with the morning paper and piping hot coffee. I close my eyes, imagining, my hands stretching forth for warmth, finding it against supple muscle and a light tangle of hair.

No, Codsworth isn’t in our lives yet, nor is Shaun. Not now, in March of 2075. Nate and I newly married by the judge of the peace. We had had no great and splendorous ceremony or dreamlike honeymoon, no, both of our families hated one another. Any semblance of a wedding would have been a bloodbath. We had actually nearly started one when we had eloped. Both of us had been disowned by our families, our friends, for what we had done. In our words, we had destroyed our futures to enjoy the now.

And every moment of it had been more than worth it.

What we had done was secret and so deliciously wrong, and it had driven us to our own private paradise the night before. A secret and forbidden whirlwind romance, freeing, liberating, empowering. I hadn’t known Nate four months before this day, but here we were, lying blissfully together and happy. At last. And, perhaps, for the last.

There are no need for pistols under pillows here, not now. I wish I could lie in this bed, in these arms, forever. Don’t let the future come. Freeze me here before we were frozen, before my poor precious Nate was frozen forever with his innards spattered all over the floor. Freeze time here, now. Don’t ever let it end.

Please.

But the voice speaks again, the voice in this bed that isn’t Nate. It speaks a name that isn’t in March of 2075.

I open my eyes to find a man who is not Nate and to my surprise, am not repulsed or disgusted, and I am not afraid. Perhaps I am even relieved.

The Elder is before me, his steely eyes ever grave and solemn, tinged with a gentleness and concern that has only become his, for me, only recently. I think of the night before, of his apologies and his desire to be forgiven, his supposed desire for change. I knew him still to be a monster, the man that had done the unforgivable to me.

And yet.

The dreams and unwanted fantasies crawl into the folds of my mind, slithering in unwanted and injecting their venomous suggestions. I feel his hands on my back. My back is bare. My robes hang beside his coat at the foot of the bed. Our bed, now, I would suppose. I wear nothing but the raggedy chemise that serves as my underclothes. I think of this, of him so tantalizingly close, of the feel of his holding me.

He starts to draw away.

Please, just a little longer, I say. Beg. My voice is hot and breathy, fattened thick and sultry by growing need. I hate myself for it.

We’ve lingered long enough, he says as he withdraws from me. From beneath me a hand glides, perhaps a bit hesitantly, back across the sheer silk of the chemise. A finger, rough and calloused, brushes past a moth-eaten hole. I feel the heat once more in his hands, the electric shock of his skin against mine. I perhaps only imagine that it lingers there for half a moment, drinking in the same small pleasure he has given me, before it is gone. He speaks again, low. I shouldn’t be touching you.

And… what if I want you to?

He is taken aback by this, perhaps as much as I myself am. His face reddens. I can imagine him in a moment, claiming the flush to be the fault of the damp spring chill that pervades even the Prydwen. Or, perhaps, a trick of the flickering fluorescent lights above us. Anything but embarrassment. But he surprises me instead by saying nothing. He sits up and turns from me.

The muscles in his back are tense. They pull at the scars, at the plasma burns, a jagged map of all the painful twists and turns in the life of a warlord. My fingers long to trace those lines, to know them, to know their story. The monster before me was a man once, and perhaps he still is, under all of that. Or, now that I do know him, because of them.

At this moment as I see him sitting on the side of the bed, leaning back ever so slightly, it seems almost as if he is inviting me to touch him. To take him and shower him in passion, to do everything I desire, and more. The tenseness is anticipation, perhaps, or a carefully controlled desire of his own. We are pitiful creatures of desperation and loneliness. In this we are the same.

I reach out to him.

You won’t, he says, not after.

When I touch him, I see him flinch. I almost flinch too. That electric crack snaps up my body, charging me with desire and need. He leans into my touch, and my fingers splay against his back. Now, under my palm, the rough edge of a raised plasma burn, heaving up and down with a silent gasp. I feel his warmth, the pounding of his heart, of his blood. The feel of him, it is something I cannot explain. I wish I hadn’t done what I did, that I was better, that I had more self-control.

But at that moment, I did not want to stop.

I move forward, touching another hand beside the first, sliding them across his trunk to his chest. I hold him like this from behind, pressing myself against him. He shivers. His heart quickens against my body. He says nothing and does not look at me. Perhaps I prefer it this way. Perhaps he does.

He turns to me, looking back at me through the corner of his eye, the roughness of his wild beard tickling at my face. I almost smile at it, that indescribable feeling of closeness, the prickling of coarse hair against skin. I move a hand to his face, running my fingers through that beard of his. His inhales deeply at that, his eyes fluttering closed. He leans into my touch, into my fingers.

I feel his scar, jagged and rough. An ugly gouge, a canyon, in his young face. It hadn’t healed well. Before the war, it would have been a horrific disfigurement. But here, here in the wasteland it was a trophy. I had a few of my own. He opens his eyes and I feel them upon me, finding my own scars and the ghosts of my own battles. From my own deathclaw, a few bullet wounds from before and after the war, the puncture wounds from Nick’s metal claws when he was no longer Nick.

I feel a hand on me now, tracing one of of these scars along my calf, up my thigh. When the deathclaw had smashed me into the ground, the metal of my power armor had buckled beneath it, crushing my leg. It had kept me in Sanctuary for weeks, but miraculously I had healed. I want to tell him this story. As I want to know him, I want him to know me.

He gazes at me, intrigued and mystified as I am with him. Inexplicably, we are entranced with one another. I lean closer to him, so close to him I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. It excites me, oh God, does it excite me. He leans into me, his lips so close he is a hairs-breadth from my own, when he stops. His eyes linger on my right collarbone, the newest of my scars. The brand that marks me as his.

He pulls away.

He stands, letting my hands fall away. He gathers up his flight suit and quickly dons it. Even clothed he is a sight to behold. The way he is shaped against the light, even when he is at ease with me, reminds me of stone. Every curve and line of him is beautiful, like the masterwork statues of men and gods long before even my time. The crane of his neck, the curvature of muscles that seem so artfully sculpted in even the smallest and most mundane of movements. I had not thought any truth to those statues, before. I had imagined them to be simply the artist’s rendition of a favored lover or simply to make a thing of beauty.

But now I see this man before me, a statue of Apollo become real, moving, flesh. The gods of old were things of immeasurable beauty and power, and here in this world at the end of all worlds, the Elder might as well be one. To his men, perhaps, he is. A thing to be loved, to be worshiped, to be given all he desires and more. And, most of all, to be feared.

Oh, how I long to hate him. But I want him to take me, to feel everything of him against me, within me, I crave it. Against all that I am, with all that I am, I long for him. I can see he longs for me, and if I am his, then why… I hear myself speak.

Why do you keep me here? In your bed?

He is grooming himself in the mirror when I ask this, so concerned and focused on anything and everything but me. His hand, sticky and wet with pomade, slows to a stop atop his head. After a moment of this he continues, more quickly, his hands cursory in their application and his mouth draw thin and tight in irritation.

In fierce and adamant concentration.

I move to stand beside him, still in my chemise too small for my height and too baggy for my thin, emaciated body. It does little to conceal much, I suppose. Still, his gaze is ever-forward, firm and rigid. I look at him in the mirror, which is cracked down the center. Undoubtedly, it was collateral damage from when I threw a chair at him. I touch my finger to the crack, running like a spider’s web down the tarnished silver. Maybe aluminum. Whatever it had been, what it is now is broken. This crack separates us in the mirror, an irreparable rift and a barrier between us.

Seven years bad luck, my mother would have said tutting her tongue at me above her needlework, no good.

I look at him in the mirror from beyond this crack, and his gaze at last meets mine.

To protect you, he says simply.

I stare at him.

He places down the pomade, screwing down the lid firmly. His hand lingers upon it as he lets out a weary sigh.

All of the Brotherhood, and most importantly my wife, know I keep you in my bed. To them, there is no question that I am performing my duties admirably, and it is not a possibility, but a near absolute certainty that you will soon be with child. He removes his hand from the jar and wipes his hands on a rag. He continues at it absently as he speaks, even after his hands have long since been cleaned.

If I were not doing this, my wife and my officers would subject you to the regulations put forth by the Codex, of the old traditions of the Western chapter. She tells me that the ceremony, as she calls it, was created to optimize the chances of conception and still keep the sanctity of holy matrimony intact. What it is, is madness. I made sure to let them know once, that I had taken you, and for that I apologize. But it had to be done if such a thing were to be avoided. Even she will avoid it, if she knows she does not have to perform it.

I find some difficulty in imagining any sort of ceremony worse than literal rape. My desire for him evaporates. I wonder, flatly, what kind of ceremony he is talking about.

We won’t speak of it. He says suddenly, tearing his gaze from me and setting it forward and distant once more. He then looks past me, to the bed. No, to his coat.

Another of our little rituals, I suppose, for our apparent protection.

Wordlessly I walk and retrieve it, holding it out for him. In another life I had done the same for Nate as he went off to work. Or was that just on television? Vaguely, I see images of well-dressed, well-groomed men taking their coats with a smile from their wives and giving them a quick peck before skedaddling out the door of the set off backstage. It was all an act, looking back on it. As ours is.

An act for no one but ourselves to make our horrible situation seem normal.

And so I feel no smile on my face, no sense of pride in who I stand before, no rush of joy as he slips arm into sleeve. He shrugs it onto his broad shoulders. That dying devil of lust flares up at that. But in a moment it sputters and dies.

We have work to do. Get dressed.

I obey. He is right in that. I think of the events of the night before, of minutemen and vertibirds and gunfire. Gunfire. Pistols.

Clarke.

I dress quickly, perhaps too quickly. Another token of turbulent last night, dozens of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes wrappers tumble from my pockets to the floor. They float slowly, ever so slowly, light and airy as they float delicately to and fro. They touch the floor as silent as the sigh of a fly, but it may as well have been a thunderclap.

The Elder steps up to me, retrieving one such wrapper, licked clean of its sugar and frosting. He turns it over in his hands, examining it carefully. After a moment, he crumples it into a wad of sticky paper and throws it at me.

This is why you were acting this way? Because you’ve been stealing food?

No, I—

Stealing rations, that’s treason, Sol. I could have you lashed for this. Good men and women are starving, and you. As you so kindly put yesterday, we’ve had to resort to petty banditry and raiding to even survive. And you’re stealing cakes? And you have the nerve, the gall, to call me a monster for what I’ve had to do?

So quickly had he turned on me, let loose all that pent up emotion and rage. Did he really think I did this, or does he simply want to yell at me? Does he want me punished?

I-I didn’t do it.

Oh? Then someone else put those in your pockets? Please, Sol, enlighten me. Why are those there?

I think of the real thief of cakes, tied to a post and lashed over and over and over. Squire Renner had been broken to the point of binge eating simply by the absence of his mother, what further damage would public physical punishment do him? I think also of Clarke, sneering, boasting about stolen food. Calling them monsters while willfully stealing from them, having a hand in driving them to do these horrible things. I think of starving squires and gangling minutemen too young to fight, fighting and dying like dogs for the scraps of a dead and dessicated world.

You think I don’t see all of the misery from all this? From the lack of rations, the lack of anything in this goddamn wasteland? No, I’m the only damn one trying to fix it. I’m trying to investigate why all this food has gone missing. Who’s taking it. Twelve crates of Cram, fifty boxes of Blamco, an entire insulated unit of mole rat meat! We are missing over twenty crates of food! All gone, but instead of finding out why, well. You just go and take what you want from the Commonwealth. You’re fucking hemorrhaging and you’re doing nothing!

He draws his lips into thin line, pointing down at the wrappers.

And I’m to assume you just keep the evidence of your search in your pockets all day?

A knock sounds on the door, silencing us both. The Elder straightens, turning from me with a huff to the door. He opens it.

Squire Renner looks in, his eyes still slightly swollen from his crying last night. Even from behind the Elder he sees me standing in a heap of his wrappers and his eyes go wide.

Squire! What is it.

He swallows, eyes shifting from the furious Elder to the wrappers and back again. When he sees that he isn’t the focus of his rage, he seems a bit less tense, though deflates a little. Undoubtedly with guilt. His shoulders droop and he looks down. Then, I see it. On his nose is a tiny smear of sugary glaze frosting.

The Elder narrows his eyes.

The boy speaks quickly, stumbling over words in his nervousness. At his sides, his hands clenched into fists tremble. He relays the message, saying that Lancer-Captain Kells and the other officers await his arrival on the command deck to discuss the Minuteman situation. Head Scribe Olin would be flying in from Cambridge later today as well to make her contributions to the discussion as a representative of the Citadel.

Noted, Squire. Inform them I will be down presently.

Squire Renner renders a salute and runs off.

The Elder, after he is gone, closes the door slowly and quietly. He stands there, his hand lingering on the handle, thinking.

I bend over, gathering the fancy lads wrappers up one by one, the slight crumpling of pastry papers the only sound between us. We both know what he saw. Neither of us want to acknowledge it, until finally, he does.

He will have to be punished. And you, for trying to hide it.

Please, he’s been through enough.

And the other squires haven’t? Our soldiers? Ourselves? The others who have lost fathers and mothers and lovers and sons, what of them? These cakes are fuel for our soldiers, energy for long marches for our scouts and expeditionary forces. For, perhaps, finding more food that we can cultivate ourselves? Why do you protect this boy? He has stolen from you, from all of us.

He took a dozen cakes! He isn’t the one who’s stolen half our stores!

Do you think it matters? He has still stolen from the Brotherhood, no matter what it is. And you aided in him in that! An example must be made.

An example? You’re talking about torturing a child for mourning his dead father and missing his mother! For being hungry and scared! He’s just a child, for fuck’s sake!

The Elder whirls on me then, storming over to me and grasping me by the shoulders. He’s not your son! He shouts at me, shaking me. He’s not your son, stop treating him like it!

I—

He’s not Shaun, Sol!

I feel as if the ground has fallen out from beneath me, and I am falling, falling, falling to the ocean. I feel myself grow cold, enveloped in it. I feel myself start shake in his arms as I drown in the realization that, perhaps, he is right. I sink further and further into this place, sinking deeper until all seems dark and shadowy, inky black and ominous. It whorls around me like tentacles, winding, coiling, grasping around my shoulders, my throat. I choke at it, I choke back the water I feel on my face, at the feel of it constricting my throat.

No, I am simply crying.

The Elder frowns at this, and I see that it not his usual disdain, but pity. Sympathy, maybe. I don’t want it, but in this moment of drowning, of the crushing reality of it all, I know I need it. I collapse into his arms, clinging to him, sobbing.

He allows me this, and as I cry, he holds me in return. He lets me cry against him, into him.

We’ll find Shaun, he says. I promise you.

… Kyle’s still just a boy. Please, Elder, don’t. Don’t do this.

He says nothing, releasing me. He leaves me, slamming the door behind him.

He leaves me to drown in silence.

 

 

We are gathered at the airport some hours later, the whole of the airport brought before the helipad in a massive formation. Knights, scribes, squires, proctors. We are gathered before the Elder and his wife, who stand before us on the helipad rigidly. Squire Renner and myself stand just beneath them, in plain view of all gathered there. His face is solemn, dry but still stained dark and dirty with tears recently shed. His uniform is also gone. He shivers in just his trousers, bare from the waist up.

His mother stands across us in her oil-stained orange uniform, her face expressionless. A white streak goes through her hair now and her face more weary. Because of me, for the influence on her son. Because she blames herself for his actions. What it is I do not know, but whatever it is has aged her, hardened her. Once, we had been friends.

Now she does not look at me.

We are all silent for some long moments before the Elder speaks. His voice is strong and hard, but in it I can hear his distaste, as if the words flow like poison from his lips. But still he says them. He must.

This boy is a thief.

Kyle flinches at the word, but true to his Brotherhood blood he stands rigidly at attention. He trembles, despite it.

A soldier who steals from our stores steals food from each and every one of you. A theft is a detriment to not only the unit, but the Brotherhood as a whole. It is a breach of trust and of brotherhood, a permanent and serious blow to our effort. It is treason. A lesson must be learned this day. Any man or woman seen restraining from the proper execution of punishment will be considered complicit to the theft and rendered the appropriate punishment.

The soldiers move in their formation, creating a shape like a hollowed-out horseshoe. Each removes from their waists a leather strap and they stand solemnly at attention, waiting.

Scribe Sol and Knight-Sergeant Gavil, please proceed.

Gavil looks at me gravely and places in my hand a police baton, upon which is mounted a heavy battery. A shock baton. We move to either side of Kyle, Gavil behind him and I facing him. Olin was the one who decided my punishment, upon her return. She did not want me physically punished for fear of losing any child that might be growing inside me. No, she decided a fitting punishment for me.

I was to lead him through the gauntlet myself.

Besides, as she in charge of food stores, should I not want to punish thieves as the Codex demands?

Gavil prods his baton at Kyle’s back, letting loose a small shock to prod him on. The boy lets out a yelp and stumbles forward. My own baton remains an inch away from his chest. I have to bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out at it all. We move forward, I backward, prodding the boy to the gauntlet.

The first soldier is Knight Lucia, who with tears in her eyes brings her belt down hard on the boy’s back. His back arches, his skin already blooming red at the first blow. The next is Initiate Clarke. I look at him long and hard, away from the poor boy I must punish and to he who should be in his place. Initiate Clarke, whom I now loathe with every fiber of my being. I would call him out now, I would beat him with my shock baton until I beat him bloody. I glare at him, and he feels it. He shuffles on his feat, worrying the belt in his hands. Knight-Sergeant Gavil has to yell at him to bring down the belt, lest he desire the same punishment.

And, in the end, he does.

Silently and seething with indignant rage, we move on through the gauntlet with painful slowness. Each knight, scribe and even the two other squires render their punishment to him, crisscrossing Kyle’s back with bloody lashings. He is crying now, eyes and nose streaming, though he is biting it back. A drop of blood rolls down his chin from the effort of holding back the wailing.

After what seems an eternity, we reach the end. Here, the proctors and paladins bring down their blows. Paladin Brandis eyes me as we approach, thoughtfully. Through his gaze he relays the unmistakable message he had given me earlier. This is a changed Brotherhood, those eyes say, it is not as it once was. He brings down his belt gently, more like a light slap than the heavy, forced blows of the others.

Knight-Sergeant Gavil looks at Brandis, suspicious.

I am an old and tired soldier, Sergeant. My muscles are not what they used to be, he says. His voice trembles with his considerable age, though perhaps he dresses it up more than a little.

Silently, I thank and bless the rebellious old Paladin. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum, I say silently back to him. To Kyle. To no one and everyone. To myself. I say it to myself like a mantra.

It’s going to be okay, I say to Nate, over and over. It’s white noise now, meaningless. But still, it is there. Comforting.

Begrudgingly appeased, Gavil prods us on. The last to strike is Knight-Sergeant Erica Renner. Kyle stops just before her, and Gavil pokes at him with the baton.

Move, the sergeant says. The boy does not. He shakes, shivering against the damp spring cold and the pain from his bloodied back. Gavil shouts then, driving his shock baton with an angry jab at the boy. He stumbles forward to his knees, into the slush and the snow and he lets out a wail as some of it splashes onto his wounds.

I bend down to help him, but Gavil’s baton is now aimed at me. Do not dare, he says silently, and looks back to the boy writhing in the mud.

Get up, he says to the boy.

Kyle stands, slowly and staggering, reeling from the pain and the cold. He steps forward slowly, keeping his weeping eyes pointed firmly at his feet. We stand now before his mother, and I look at her. Despite how carefully she has attempted to compose herself, Erica's eyes glisten with tears and her lip trembles with the effort of holding herself at attention. The belt in her hands hangs heavy. She looks at Kyle long and hard. Kyle looks back up at her with wide and sad eyes. Slowly, he nods at her.

She brings down the belt upon his back with a crack. Only at this does Kyle finally let out a loud and broken wail, crumpling into the mud.

Enough! The Elder shouts from the helipad, and steps forward from the helipad towards us. He has learned his lesson!

He steps through the mud and the slush, through the gauntlet, and extends a hand to the boy. The boy shrinks back from the offered hand. His sobs wrack his entire body, his misery and pain plain for all to see. But after a moment he takes it, and the Elder gently helps him to his feet. He says something to a soldier, and the soldier returns with the squire’s shirt and coat. The Elder drapes these over Kyle’s shoulders and turns to the gathered soldiers.

The next soldier caught stealing from our stores will not be shown the same mercy! The next thief who steals from his brothers will be stripped forever from the Scrolls and executed by firing squad! Do I make myself clear?

 

The Elder and his wife left to attend an officer meeting about the Minutemen situation after the gauntlet. Important business, not for me. But now? Now I had no wish to be among them. The other soldiers had all dispersed as well to their own duties and their own ruminations. Erica had silently taken her son back up to the Prydwen, to Cade, to treat his wounds. The airport is uncharacteristically silent now. The punishment hangs heavy over all our heads. For a dozen cakes, a boy — a child — had received over four dozen lashings.

And I had herded him into them. He would never look at me the same.

That is how horrible it had become.  To what further and more horrific ends will hunger drive us?

I stare at my hands now. They are red and cold from the chill. Or from, perhaps, how tightly I had gripped that hateful baton.

I wish I could say that I had been braver, more daring, more rebellious as I had once been. That I fought this punishment tooth and nail, that I took it myself, for him. Or that I had pointed out the truth, the real culprit, to save Kyle. But I had been a coward. For Shaun, I tell myself, as I need to stay alive to save him. Kyle is not Shaun.

But Kyle is still just a boy.

My hands feel filthy. I wipe them on my robes, but nothing can take away the guilt and the shame of my complacence. If only Clarke, that selfish short-sighted asshole, had the balls to step forward and admit to what he had done. Instead, he had simply watched as a boy took his four dozen lashings, from his friends and his family and his own mother, and had even joined in on it. If I could, I would give the bastard forty dozen lashings myself, and then some.

Sol.

I look up from my filthy hands to see none other than Clarke. I want to jump up, to wrap those filthy, dirty hands of mine around his throat and squeeze the life from him. I wanted his eyes to look the same as Kyle’s when he had left, near lifeless and empty. Dead eyes, devoid now of the joy of life he had once had. How dare Clarke come to me now, after what he had done? I stand, feeling my nostrils flare in my rage.

Sol, I… I never anticipated this. Believe me, I didn’t mean—

Fat load your noble intentions did Kyle, or me, Clarke. That boy didn’t deserve what you’ve done to him.

Clarke swallows nervously, stepping back from me. He stammers out excuses, that he didn’t force the boy to steal, that he was only taking what wouldn’t be missed, that the Brotherhood didn’t deserve it anyway—

You’re telling me simply because he wears a uniform, a little boy deserved to be flogged? Because he’s Brotherhood? Are you fucking serious?

No, I— I did it for a good reason, believe me! You have to believe me!

Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t go to Kells or the Elder right now and report you.

… you wouldn’t.

I would.

You need a reason to believe me? Well, I could show you. He swallows back his nervousness and sets his jaw hard. He raises his head a little bit, proudly, smugly in a small and pitiful sort of way.

I could show you that little secret of yours I found, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The gauntlet Squire Renner had to go through was an actual naval punishment for stealing from shipmates (#4 http://listverse.com/2018/06/15/10-punishments-of-the-royal-navy-during-the-age-of-sail/) and I was heavily inspired by this scene (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOwMpXUVxlU) from the Horatio Hornblower miniseries.
> 
> Any comments, concerns or critiques are more than welcome and I always do my best to give a quick response.
> 
> Feel free to follow my tumblr for writing notes and inspiration at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally part of Chapter 15, but that kind of a super giant chapter is too long even for me. >->
> 
> So enjoy a super early extra chapter!
> 
> ***** TW: canon-typical violence, feral ghoul attack, mental breakdown *****

It is behind logistics and through the skeletal remains of a passenger plane that I follow Clarke. The room we enter is one I have never seen before, let alone entered. The air is damp and smells of raw sewage. Most likely it was the underground level of the airport, where passengers would pick up their luggage and fly fast on moving sidewalks. I half-remember extensive tram systems. Relics of the past, much like myself. We walk down escalators that have become like fountains. Water from the nearby sea has worn away the walls and flooded parts of this place. It flows down the stairs, past our feet and far into the darkness.

In my anxiousness, I think I hear the sound of splashing in the distance. My imagination, surely.

Clarke has been here before many times. I had known from Lucia for him to slip away more and more, but from the way and the ease he walked through this place, he was very familiar with it. He walks to an elevator, swiping a key card. The light flashes green, and we enter.

This place has become my sanctuary, Clarke says, away from that Brotherhood of hypocrisy.

I say nothing. The elevator is slow to descend, and the steel cables suspending it screech and whine with the effort of lowering us. Knowing how much water had invaded the place and how much time had passed since it was built, it was a miracle the guiderails hadn’t rusted down to nothing. I stand anxiously beside Clarke.

I feel danger in this place.

My pip-boy plays quietly a sort of elevator music that the elevator has long since lost its ability to play. Clarke hums along.

Finally, the doors open and I am bombarded by an otherworldly and impossibly rank stench. I immediately double over and gag at the smell of it, of rotting meat and filth and decay. As I retch, I wonder in amazement if Clarke had simply left the supplies down here to rot.

As I struggle to stand and endure the stink of this place, I hear a wet slap in the distance, and the gurgling of something all too familiar. Fear strikes my heart like a bolt of lightning, and I stand rigid, alert.

It can’t be.

There, that’s it. Not bad, is it?

Clarke coos through an opening in the wall at something, a neatly stacked pile of Brotherhood rations just beside him. In the corner of a room lay the remnants of the stolen food. A mountain of cans of Cram, soggy boxes of Blamco, dozens upon dozens of fancy lads wrappers. More food than we even had in logistics to feed the ranks was here, lying in piles. Some of it, unused, had gone foul in puddles of stagnant water.

Slowly, cautiously, I step towards Clarke. I feel myself shake with fear and dread, I feel my hands ball up into fists at my sides. I am unarmed, as is he. He did not bring his rifle. No, he is armed with only a hefty leg of molerat, which he sets sail with a cheery laugh through the window. It lands with a sickeningly wet splat. Below, in what appears to be a reactor room, at least eight ghouls swarm the meat. They tear at it with claws and jagged, brownish teeth. They stare up at us over their meal with beady black eyes, their humanity scoured away by years of radiation and madness.

All this food… I cannot mask the horror from my voice, how my heart has stopped and it’s stuck like a frog in my throat. I can hardly move from the fear, from the shock. Have you been feeding these ferals?

He nods enthusiastically, smiling as he looks at the ghouls snarling at one another, gnashing their gruesome mouths. Bits of raw, bloody meat hangs from between their teeth. Their bodies are smeared with it, with food and grime and god knows what else. Many have long since lost their clothing. Some are near skeletal, skin like leather pulled over their ribs, their spindly legs, their distended bellies. These are far older than the ones I had seen in Cambridge.

How long has he been at this? Months? Perhaps even before I had arrived? I feel the blood leave my face at such a realization.

He continues.

It’s been working, too. They’re docile now. Some of them even like me, I think. He smiles again, waving to one of them through the window. A particularly ancient one, his tattered pre-war clothes half burned into his green bulbous skin, sees this. He stares up at us through the window. On his chest, a barely legible nametag pinned to his chest still reads, illuminated by his incandescent glow, Hello. My Name Is Luke.

The thing that had once been Luke shambles up the stairs with a frightening slowness, its joints not moving quite as they should. A foot catches on the stairs and it falls to the ground. But still it approaches, letting out a low hungry moan, dragging itself up the stairs. Never once do its mindless eyes leave ours. Finally it reaches the window, but its too high for the thing to climb. Instead, it beats its hands weakly on the wall, letting out guttural barks as it tries to reach us.

Clarke bends down over the window’s edge and pats a hand on the Luke-thing’s hairless head. The ghoul looks up, jumping just a bit in an attempt to bite him. But it it is too slow, too ancient, too emaciated to do anything about it. Clarke chuckles at what must undoubtedly seem to him playful antics. He continues.

Luke here could hardly move when I found him, he was so starved. He’s getting stronger and stronger every day. All of them are.

Clarke, I say slowly, carefully, they’re ferals. That, that thing isn’t Luke. Not anymore.

He frowns at that, knitting his brows together in frustration. No. No, I had a friend who was a ghoul, once. As human as you or me. But the Brotherhood… the Brotherhood says ghouls are abominations. They all deserve to die. Would you kill him, too? Just because of who he is?

Was he a feral?

Clarke throws up his hands at that, letting loose a frustrated groan. What does it matter? What difference does it make? Weren’t they all human once? We should help them, not destroy them!

They’ll destroy you, given the chance. I look over the window with some hesitation. The thing that was once Luke is not the only of Clarke’s friends grasping for us. Two more, a woman with half her face melted down to her neck and another male, naked as the day he was born hundreds of years ago, clamber over one another to reach for the window. Claw-like fingers crack and snap in desperation for us.

I back away from the window, from the ever-increasing sound of hungry ghouls. They are getting loud, yet more of them are pouring from the cracks in the walls, from hallways. The room is filled with them, there are a dozen, two dozen, perhaps. I don’t linger to look. I back away, as far as I can, and with every ounce of adrenaline-surged strength I rip the lid off of a nearby crate. Cram. I try another, and it is empty.

I am afraid.

The sounds are even louder now, gurgling feral screams and hoarse shouts not quite human, and it echoes in my head. Ghouls, swarming in Cambridge. The Paladin is on his knees, fighting them off. There are too many. Rhys lies bleeding out against the wall, Haylen frantically trying to suture a gut wound and fight off a legless feral simultaneously. Preston and I wrench a ghoul from her, we fire our guns. I keep missing, I can’t hit them, my hands are shaking.

There are so fucking many of them.

A soldier is being eaten alive on the perimeter ramparts.

When will it end? They just keep coming, ghoul upon ghoul, human and yet not. Babies burned into bellies, women turned monsters, I am envious of them for their mindlessness but I am really? I want to fight them.

I want to live!

Where the fuck is the potted meat?

Looking for this?

I look, and Clarke is there, holding my pistol dangling by a single finger looped through the trigger guard. I lunge for it, desperate to something, anything to arm myself. He yanks it back and I stumble on a fallen lid, onto my belly, my face. I try to push myself up.

When I do, I see him pointing the pistol right between my eyes.

I joined the Brotherhood two years ago, Clarke says. His face isn’t quite right, his voice shaking with the effort of speaking, of admission. He is breaking, he has been for a long time. Months feeding ghouls, feeding their madness, his own. His hands are on the pistol, a thumb on the safety. He means to use it, if I am not careful. I remain on the ground, gazing up the barrel at what remained of a former friend. He continues.

In all that time, I never doubted our beliefs. Never questioned them. But during the battle for the airport, the ghouls… they just kept coming. I… I killed… I don’t even know how many…

I swallow a nervously. What did you expect, Clarke? You knew what the Brotherhood stood for.

His brows furrow, his gaze now pained. His voice trembles now, on the brink of tears. But I didn’t. Not really. Not until that moment. We murdered them! We’re murderers! We’re murderers and rapists and slavers, don’t you see! And this damn uniform, these damn guns… I’m one of them! And you. I thought you were like me, you weren’t like them. The Brotherhood rapes you to try and make more of them, and then I found this. A gun. You had a gun. You hate the Brotherhood, maybe more than I do. You had to want to help me. And you, you were my friend, weren’t you?

I still am, Clarke, believe me. I want to help you. Just put the gun down and—

A chime resounds from the elevator room, then an angry buzz. Clarke freezes, his lips parting into a surprised, oh. He leaves me there, on the ground, and peers into the room. He stands there for a moment. I do not try to get up, he still has the gun.

Suddenly, I’m yanked up painfully by the collar of my robes, and I feel the cold plastic of the pistol pressed down hard on the base of my skull.

Who followed us, Sol? Someone tried calling the elevator!

I, I don’t know. I was alone, I—

Don’t you fucking lie to me!

The distinct crack of laser fire resounds then through the tunnels, then another. It is Brotherhood then, and indeed, someone has entered the tunnels. Long ago, in my Family days, I had been thoroughly trained in sniffing out anyone tailing me. I was a good target, being the only daughter of an Italian mobster. But given the literal centuries between then and now, I suppose I had gotten rusty. Or perhaps I had begun to feel safe, that no one could hurt me in my imprisonment. No one could hurt me, and in that same regard no one could ever save me. That the Elder was always watching, always there.

I really don’t know, Clarke!

Stand up! He waves me up with the pistol, pushes me toward a chair facing the window, where he undoubtedly had sat for months, feeding his feral friends. He orders me to sit, and not to move. He keeps the pistol trained on me but he faces the elevators.

I thought you would understand, of all people here, I thought I could trust you! He’s panicking now, the veins bulging in his throat and every muscle shaking, pulsing, with fear. Sweat beads on his forehead. The gun shakes before my face, his finger terrifyingly tense in the trigger well. You agree with them! You’re one of them, aren’t you! Because, what, you like getting dicked by the Elder or something? You’re his bitch is that it, the Brotherhood’s bitch?

Please, calm down—

I AM CALM! Clarke is screaming now. Tears and snot are running down his face in his panic, in his fear of finally being found out. Perhaps, of his realization of how far he had gone. Was gone. You! You all, you all are insane! You just kill what’s different than you, you fear it, you don’t try to understand — to fix it! I can fix them, I can fix Luke! It’s been working!

Clarke, please!

SHUT UP! He bashes the butt of the pistol against my head, sending my world spinning. The cacophony of hungry ghouls grows to a deafening roar, punctuated by the sound of approaching rifle fire. To my horror, a glowing hand grasps the ledge of the window. A face slowly, painfully slowly, drags itself up along with it. The Luke-thing peers over, its bright, soulless eyes wild with animal hunger. Clarke looks to it, his trembling, wet lips breaking suddenly into a maniacal grin. They’re my friends. See?

He extends a hand to the ghoul, grasping its hand and hoisting it up.

Before I can blink the Glowing One is on him.

With a guttural screech, it flings itself with the force of its entire being upon him and sends them both sprawling to the floor. I sit frozen in my chair at the initial shock of it, and can only watch in horror as the ghoul bites down hard on Clarke’s arm. The soldier lets out a high-pitched scream of agony and writhes beneath the ghoul, trying to free himself. The ghoul lifts its bloodied mouth and roars into Clarke’s face, coming down for another bite.

I leap out of my chair and tackle the ghoul away. It’s body is a disgusting wet and reeks of blood and rot and shit, and all manner of things I don’t want to think about. But I don’t think, I can’t. I’m powered purely by fear and adrenaline. I jump away from its grasping claws and look for something, anything, that I can use against it. Clarke has collapsed over the pistol, and he’s screaming and crying, curled over the hunk of flesh ripped from his forearm. I can’t get to it in time, time, time, I’m out of time!

The ghoul is on me, scrabbling for my ankles. I fall hard on my back. My breath is knocked out. I struggle to find it. I feel the ghoul now, crawling his way up my body, drool and who knows what else oozing from its horrid mouth, slathering it all over me as it scrambles for the taste of more flesh. I feel the tingling warmth of its incredible irradiation, coming off in crashing waves, cascading with an almost painfully hot force against my body.

Frantically, still trying to find my breath, my senses, I bring my knee up as hard as I can and twist my body, flinging it away from me. But no, it’s hanging on tight now to the looseness of my robes. It screams its animal anger up at me.

My hand fumbles for something, anything, to kill it before it kills me. I find something hard and cold and metal. It’ll do.

I bring it down as hard as I can right onto the ghoul’s skull. My fingers scream out their pain, the sharp bite of metal edges against flesh, but I don’t care. I’ve stunned it. I push it off me and pin it to the ground with a feral roar of my own, bringing down my makeshift bludgeon again and again.

My arm is sore and my fingers bruised and cut and bleeding by the time the ghoul stops moving. Or maybe it’s when I finally notice it’s stopped moving. I don’t know, I don’t remember. I stand, letting the bloodied weapon fall from my hands. It’s a can of Cram. The metal has buckled and warped and dented, even against the soft and spongy skull of an ancient feral. I’m panting.

I had almost forgotten how terrifying, how thrilling, it all was.

I look to Clarke. He lays still on his back, a hand clasped onto his mutilated arm. He stares up at me in abject horror, at my shredded hand, at the ghoul’s green blood splattered on my face, at the stillness of death.

I bend down to Clarke, to reach for him, to bandage or bind off his arm or something. Anything. He was losing too much blood, he could die. Clarke, here, let me—

He quickly crawls from me, scrambling up to press himself against the nearby wall. He breathes hard and heavy, labored. He is bleeding profusely. The ghoul hit a major vein, probably. I approach, and then he screams.

Don’t touch me! He stands now, pressing himself against the wall, cradling his mangled arm. His face is pale, from blood loss probably, from terror. You murdered him! You murdered Luke!

Clarke, he fucking attacked you!

No, you’re wrong! You scared him! He was getting better! He begins to sidle against the wall, towards a door. I reach for him again, and he shies away from it. He got scared and lashed out! He’s sick, Sol, he’s just sick! Can’t you see? He was getting better, and you killed him!

There is no reasoning with him. He’s gone.

I inhale deeply and take a step back. Something clatters against my feet, sharp and hard against the tile floor. The pistol. I reach down for it, turn off the safety, point it at Clarke.

I’m turning you in, I say, breathing in through my teeth. This has gone far enough.

If you turn me in, they’ll kill me!

Clarke, if you turn yourself in, they’ll help you. You need help!

That’s right, Sol! He wails, gesturing madly with his bloodied hand at me. Droplets of it hit my robe, my face. I needed help from you! None of this would have happened if you just listened! You and the whole goddamn Brotherhood, you’re no better than ferals! You monsters kill them, slaughter them, like animals!

He sidles closer to the door. Something is in his hand. There’s a keycard slot there, to the door, the door to the— oh, god. I point my pistol at him, let loose a crackling warning shot at the door. Don’t you dare. He only smiles at me, then looks lovingly at the horde of ghouls trying to scramble up through the window. To the still-glowing corpse of Luke.

Now it’s their turn.

He swipes the card, and with a chime the door opens.

He smiles as they overtake him, and he’s buried instantly under a pile of ravenous ghouls. Before I can even aim I’m watching him being torn apart, eaten, with a smile. I remember that smile as we hung holiday decorations, as we traded gossip around the mess hall. He was my friend, before. Had I truly not been there for him, too focused on my own misery?

I hear myself scream as I pull the trigger, blasting a ghoul tearing at Clarke’s leg in the face. I fire again, again, I’m screaming like a banshee. The ghouls lunge at me, but I’m firing, bashing them with my weapon, kicking them. There are many, but one by one I gun them down. They come and come and come, more and more of them.

Eight half-melted corpses ring me by the time the clip runs empty. A ghoul is turning the corner, stepping clumsily over what remains of Clarke, when the trigger pulls and emits only a click. Oh, god. I pick up another can of Cram, ready to strike, but my voice is hot and ragged, pulling painfully at my chest with every breath, every curse I fling at them. I’m quickly tiring. I have fought many, but oh many more are still locked away in that room?  I can't just kill this one, two more will come in its place.

I run it down and with a grunt of exertion kick it square in the chest, sending it tumbling back down the stairs.  I snatch the card from Clarke’s corpse and swiping it at the slot, trying to close it. Slowly, so painfully slowly, it begins to close. Then, suddenly, the keycard slot sparks and sputters, and the door remains half-open.

No, no, no. I try to shove the door, push it, anything. I hear the ghouls clambering up the stairs, the slower ones, the ones who hadn’t been fed. They’re crawling, but the smell of blood spurs them on. I see some stand, shuffle up the stairs. I could shoot them from the window, but — on the desk, there’s a terminal. It still has power. In the room there were turrets, a powered down Protectron. Perhaps…

I hack into the terminal, using bypasses I learned long ago from Family contacts or through the software patents we slogged through for RobCo. Finally, I’m in, and lo and behold there is a prompt for the Protectron.

Powering-on. Protectron-on-duty.

I breathe a sigh of relief, and another when the robot begins firing at the army of ghouls in the next room. I’ve bought time. I heave the terminal from the desk, then push the desk over to barricade the opening still in the door. That’ll keep them there, if only for a time as the Protectron does it work. A drawer slides open, spilling forth a pile of precious microfusion cells. I quickly slap a replacement into my pistol.

It is then I hear the splashes. A shadowed figure makes its way on an adjoining side of the room, I can see it through the windows. In a hallway connecting straight to this one, it is running— oh god. These tunnels must all be connected, perhaps the ghouls weren’t only in this room. I ready my pistol, but I’m tired. I slump against the wall, my knees threatening to buckle beneath me. But still I am standing, my heartbeat racing and my vision near fading from the exhaustion and the stress, but still I am standing. I must.

I will not die here today.

The strings of tin cans in the doorway jangle in alarm, and a man enters. Not a ghoul, but a man.

The Elder.

He looks at me then, raising his rifle instinctively at me. He blinks back his surprise at seeing me, then at Clarke’s lifeless body just beside me. Slowly, he lowers his weapon and steps toward me.

But I keep my pistol raised. My muscles are as frozen as he is, half from the exhaustion of combat and the other from simply seeing him. He’s fought his way through a gauntlet it would seem, he’s covered in grime and muck, and he’s soaked from wading through the flood from the waist up. His hair and beard are wild and caked with blood, and a grazing slash across his chest still bleeds. He is a remarkably horrible and beautiful sight to see, and immediately I feel my heart surge and swell for him.

He has fought his way through hell, alone, for me.

Sol.

His voice is soft, weak with disbelief. He stares at me, at the pistol still trained at his head. He thinks I will shoot him.

For a half-second I actually think about it, about killing him. I could, a single shot to the face could likely do the trick. I had a nearly point-blank shot, and his rifle was lowered. I had dreamt about a moment like this for weeks, months, what has felt like years now. I have fantasized about slitting his throat in the night, about smashing something on his head, about pushing him off of the Prydwen.

Wait. From the corner of my eye, I see another silhouette emerge from the hall. It looks around for a moment before first lumbering towards the room we are in, then breaking into a frenzied sprint.

Sol, he says again, softly and sadly, with all the mournful tenderness of his nightly Sarahs and surrogate embraces. My heart aches then at hearing that, that name that isn’t my name on his lips.  In that voice reserved for her, now for me. One filled with love and affection, of need, of longing. I want to hear him say it again and again. But no, he thinks I will shoot him, and it breaks him. The sadness in his voice, it breaks me.

Sol, please. No.

I keep my pistol raised, clenching my teeth and furrowing my brow in concentration. Three, two, one. The ghoul lets out a howl as it leaps for the distracted Elder, and as soon as it comes into view I pull the trigger.

No!

From the force of the blast it is flung against the wall with a wet thud before collapsing to the ground, lifeless. The Elder looks in shock at me then, to the smoking gun in my hands, then to the dead ghoul slumped at his feet. My pistol is still raised in my hands, I could still shoot him. I could avenge all he’s done to me and more. I could cut off the head of the snake here and now, I could free the Commonwealth of the Brotherhood forever. Clarke’s words echo, are you the Brotherhood’s bitch?

My hands fall, and the pistol clatters to the ground. The Elder runs to me, gathering me suddenly in his arms and holding me tight against him. I sink into him, the exhaustion and pain of all I had just done coming over me like a tidal wave. I weep openly against him, grasping at his back and clinging to him. He is a rock, a rock against a raging sea of chaos and violence and death and I need it. I need him.

I mentally prepare myself, no, I eagerly await the coming tirade of, what were you thinking’s, and, you stubborn insolent idiot’s. It’s familiar, it’s something I can expect, it’s something that’s him. He is solid, unchanging, steel. He is strong, he is reliable, he is unyielding. He is the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel, my captor and my master, and against all reason I need him.

He pulls away from me then, looking me in the eyes. His gaze is not angry as I had anticipated or even disappointed. Genuine relief, even joy, lights up his face like the sun. The distant sounds of violence as the Protectron cleans up what remains of the ghouls is distant now, lost and drowned out by that look he gives me, that smile.

I probably look disgusting, sweaty and bloodied, branded and bald from all that the Brotherhood had done to me. But now, despite all of it, he looks at me as if I am the most beautiful thing in the world.

His hands move to my face, a thumb wiping away the ghoul’s blood, Clarke’s blood, my own from my cheeks, to my eyes, to my lips. His touch lingers there, eventually slowing to a stop.

You’re a horrible shot with a pistol, you know. You missed me at less than five yards.

I find myself laughing at that. It’s a tired and bitter kind of laugh, but nevertheless. I did miss a golden opportunity. I hate it, and him. I know this for a fact, but at the same time I cannot quite stomach the idea of it anymore. I can’t shoot this man, not even if I tried. I laugh at his words, at myself, at the world for putting such a man before me. For putting me before him.

He wants to change, he has told me. He wants to be better. For the Brotherhood, for the Commonwealth, for me. I find myself wanting to see that change, to be beside him as he grows.

Then, suddenly, he kisses me.

It’s not so much a kiss as a crushing of lips against mine, fierce and wanting and desperate. In fact, the force of it is almost painful. Certainly, it stuns me. I sit there, frozen, as he kisses me, staring wide-eyed in shock at him. My mind is blank. Short-circuited.

He pulls away after this, perhaps more than a bit flustered at what he has done, but he hides it well. He clears his throat, undoubtedly to apologize to me or berate me as he would. But I won’t let him, I can’t.

I reach out to him, pressing a kiss of my own to his lips with the same passion and desperation he had given me. He’s taken aback by it, but after the shock is gone he sinks into it, his arms wrapping about me and pressing me to him again. I lean into him, I can’t get close enough to him, I can’t feel enough of him against me. I want to be enveloped by him, I want to drown in him. With him.

I was terrified, he says when we finally part from one another, half angrily and half relieved. What were you thinking, you stubborn idiot?

I almost smile at that, almost. The silence that surrounds us is suddenly stifling. We are surrounded by the dead or dying. We are coated in their blood. Even the Protectron has fallen to the grasping hands of the ferals.

We hold each other there in the quiet, the dreadful quiet that rages all around us like a stormy sea. We are one another’s rock, as much as we may hate or love one another, whatever hellish and beautiful thing is bound between us. Only in one another’s arms can we find peace. This moment makes me want to fall asleep in his arms again. To wake up in them. Forever, maybe.

I move myself in his arms, laying my head against his shoulder, tired enough to fall asleep.

In the darkness, against the contentment and peace of being held in his arms, of the memory of his kiss, I see something before it all fades away. Clarke’s broken body, bits and pieces missing and in the bellies of dead things, things I killed that he had so dearly loved, still lays there.

His glassy eyes still stare at me, accusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think, leave a comment, critique or question in the comments and I'll do my best to reply as soon as I am able. :)
> 
> But oh my gosh, a kiss. Finally. After what, 83K words? Jeez. But romance has finally come for these two. What will happen next????
> 
> Feel free to follow my tumblr for all things writing, gaming and for bits of my inspiration at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Amylith, TK_Signed_and_Sealed, and zulzmonitor on Tumblr for your continued support for my writing. And also to all you guys who gave me kudos! You guys brighten up my day. I can't say enough how much your kind words mean to me! I hope I can continue to please you guys!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the next chapter!
> 
> ***** TW: a bit spoilery, please consult end notes. *****

Clarke was burned with the ghouls, outside the perimeter.

He did not get a funeral, though many both on and off duty came in droves to see the traitor’s body burned. Tension was high, the feeling of betrayal and treason still raw and burning in the hearts of many. How could he have done such a thing, how could he have watched, even participated, in the punishing of someone else for his crimes? Immediately, the memory of Clarke was a hateful and disgusting one. But in the end, the Brotherhood simply struck his name from the Scrolls and was content to forget him and move on.

Until they found Rylan.

Or rather, his holotags. A knight thought lost to perimeter attacks months ago was a pile of scattered bones, broken for marrow and picked clean by the ghouls of the underground. Evidently, he had preceded me as he in charge of food stores in Logistics and had gone missing some weeks before. I hadn’t known him, but apparently Clarke had. Well. Rumors circulated that Rylan had followed Clarke, concerned, and Clarke had done him in to hide his secret pets. Or perhaps, that Clarke had even fed a true-born soldier who had been his friend, to them. Somehow it got out that I had also almost been fed to them, though only I and the Elder had known.

And them: Clarke’s ghouls, they were called now. The feral pets of a crazy wastelander who were fed good and loyal Brotherhood soldiers. Monsters fed by more monsters, by god, who could be trusted? — that sort of thing. Fear and outrage grew as wild theories of desperate, hungry soldiers spun ever wilder.

No, the fear and outrage still grows.

Knight Lucia, perhaps, is one of the only ones who had openly mourned Clarke. For that she had earned the suspicion of nearly every Brotherhood soldier in the airport. In fact, all those not born to the Brotherhood were immediately suspect in all that had gone wrong in the Commonwealth. Distrust and paranoia was sown in the ranks like salt in the earth, drying up and destroying bonds that had defined units, friendships, families.

Our situation hasn’t improved, says Proctor Teagan with a sigh. And the food we recovered, well… Less than half could even be salvaged, most was rotting away or soaked with sewage. It would have helped if Gavil had notified me of the missing food, that traitor had been stealing for months. We’re trying to pump out the water and clear everything out in the underground, maybe see if we can find more, but it’ll take time. A lot of time. And, well, a lot of manpower we just can’t afford right now. We can’t trust many of our soldiers to stay true to the Brotherhood anymore.

The Elder’s wife nods at Teagan’s words as she paces the command room, looking out at the Commonwealth, at the distant Castle. Olin is here in the Elder’s stead while he assists in clearing out the underground. He had insisted on it, though only after getting Cade’s repeated assurances that I would be fine. Immediately he had gone off with his soldiers to ensure its safety and security, as well as to plan for future developments. But if Teagan’s words were anything to go by, plans were all his efforts were going to be.

I see, she says after a moment of careful thought. And what of our supply lines from Cambridge, Proctor?

If all goes well and the Minutemen stay true to their word, we’re expecting the first shipment shortly.

Splendid. Dismissed, Proctor.

Teagan leaves, clapping a hand approvingly on my shoulder. It stings, from the brand, and his smile feels dirty. Many of the Brotherhood have frown a sort of respect for me after the bloody conclusion to my investigation. You’re not like the other wastelanders, you’re one of us. True steel, sister, ad victoriam. It makes me feel sick to my stomach to hear that and to see that and then I feel those glassy eyes bore into me, accusing. You’re one of them.

I suspect my show of loyalty to be the reason why Olin has called me down to the command deck.

She does not look at me when she speaks, her eyes still distant, gazing out across the bay.

You of all people know just how dire our situation has become. The… unfortunate lengths to which we have had to go to survive. We are besieged not only from all sides, but from within, as well. At first I thought you one of these threats. I am pleased that you are not. That you have the Brotherhood’s interests at heart. Or rather, that yours align with ours.

I feel the brand throb painfully at my collarbone, above my heart. I say nothing to her. She sees this, her cold blue eyes moving to meet mine in the reflection of the glass.

I heard from Proctor Quinlan that you were a lawyer, before.

I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but slowly, I nod.

Good. My husband, she says with some emphasis, wishes you to assist us in drafting negotiating terms with the Minutemen. I suppose you must forgive me, as I fought quite fiercely against it. Your loyalty was in question, after all.

Forgive you? I laugh at that, running a hand through my— upon my shaved head. Well, forgive me if I can’t seem to forget certain things you’ve done to me.

Then we are the same, she turns to me then, smiling bitterly. As I seem to have a little trouble forgetting that you’re sleeping with my husband. Repeatedly. So let’s call it even, shall we?

She steps towards me, and I want to hit her. To rake my nails across her hateful face like the claws of a cat. A lion. I want to fight her. How dare she suggest that any of this is done by choice, that I’m not an animal trapped in a corner with no where else to go. As if she’s not forcing me into this position, so yet another child can be stolen from me. The look she gives me as she passes me dares me to hit her.

But she passes, unscathed. The memory of her punishing me is still raw in my brain, animal fear holds my muscles frozen in place. Ghouls I can handle, but she is a monster on an entirely different level. She waves a hand and whistles lightly, as if calling a dog.

And like a dog, I follow her to the flight deck. We make our way to a railing overlooking the bay and we stare off into the distance, watching tiny specks like ants mill about the ancient fort. They are building something, from the looks of it. Briefly, I entertain the idea of pushing her off the Prydwen.

We may not be able to forgive each other, says Olin after a moment of watching the distant Minutemen, but the Brotherhood is bigger than us. No matter our differences. We can’t afford to hate each other any longer. We are mankind’s best hope at survival. We have to survive, no matter the cost.

As much as I hate everything about her, and how undoubtedly mutual the feeling is, I can’t argue with what she says. The memory of Minutemen and monsters, Kyle walking the gauntlet, of Clarke being eaten alive — all of it is too real. Too new, too raw to push away and ignore. And if the Brotherhood falls, what happens to the soldiers, the squires, the scribes? The Elder? What happens to the best shot of finding my boy? Does it all vanish like dust in the wind, gone forever? No, she’s right and I hate it.

She notices my hands clench on the railing and rather than commenting on it, or me, or anything else, she simply points towards the distance, towards the Castle.

So tell me this, Lawyer Sol, how does the Brotherhood survive that?

I have to breathe carefully, rein in myself to keep from shouting at her all that’s been raging around in my head since Clarke. His words, his truth. The truth that the Brotherhood needed to change before it destroyed itself. But no, Olin would never listen to that, to my anger, to my shame in being a part of it all. For she did not see shame in all the atrocities she did, in all that was done to her in return. No, she took it willingly for some bizarre sense of the greater good.

So I construct my words carefully.

The Minutemen outnumber you. They always will, and no matter what kind of fight you bring against them you won’t ever defeat them. No matter how many guns you shoot at them, no matter how many bombs you drop on them, they’ll just keep coming at you until they’ve either exhausted you or destroyed you.

Nonsense. There’s less than a company’s worth of soldiers at that Castle of theirs.

Soldiers? They’re not soldiers, they’re farmers. Merchants. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers — don’t you see? Behind every minuteman there’s five more they’re fighting for. You kill that man, his wife and his sons and daughters will hate you and all you stand for until the day you die. Hell, they might hate you enough to take up arms against you. Those minutemen represent the entire Commonwealth. So yes, there’s a small element there, but how many more stand behind them? Your policies have riled them up so much I’m struggling to come up with a reason for them not to kill you.

They’re wastelanders with guns is what they are. She says the word with the same disdain I have been hearing more and more around the Prydwen, the airport. Wastelander. A lesser person, a lesser being, like an animal. Like vermin. Perhaps she has had a hand in spreading that particular sentiment. She continues.

They only care for themselves. They don’t see anything greater than themselves, they don’t see the bigger picture. That humanity is dying more and more with every day. Two centuries have passed, and what have they rebuilt? What progression of mankind has there been besides a descent into barbarism and anarchy? These people are no different than those in the Capital Wasteland. The only peace they want is one without us in it.

The Elder had said the same words to me before launching his attack on the Castle. Now, I feel that maybe that idea hadn’t been his own. I narrow my eyes at her, wondering just what other ideas she had weaseled into his mind. If she had been the one to mold him into something he so hated.

But I admire your idealism. Really, I do. There was a time, long ago, when I felt the same. Why can’t the world be at peace? Why can’t we all just get along? The former Elder thought very much like you. She was a good woman, and if the world were a better place full of sunshine and rainbows, perhaps I would have agreed with her. But this isn’t that world and not yours before the bombs, either. Here, life is hard and life is cruel. There are no picket fences and happy endings just because you wish it. People are not kind and they will do everything they can to take advantage of you. Elder Lyons died because she never realized that. And we have survived despite her.

A shiver runs up my spine at that, maybe it’s the chill in the air. But no, the weather is warming and spring is here. No, it’s at the callousness of her words. She’s gloating. Over me, over the horrible death of Lyons, Sarah and her two paltry lines. Olin had been one of the Outcasts after all, and she had earned herself a position of great power within the Brotherhood so conveniently after Sarah’s untimely demise. If there hadn’t been such substantial evidence of a super mutant attack, I would have suspected that she had orchestrated it herself.

In a way, I still do.

She is done asking for my opinion, despite her never really wanting it in the first place. She beckons me to follow her again and leads me down to the airport taxi. The lancer snaps up in salute at Olin, then at me. We say nothing, and we begin our descent. It twirls on its way down, careful and hovering in order not to buck us off. To keep my mind off the growing sickness and ache I feel in my belly from the movement, I keep giving my opinion anyway.

No matter who they are, Olin, they have the supplies that we don’t. Like it or not we need a peace agreement with them. If we can trade our tech for their food—

Out of the question. And how dare you, I am the wife of Arthur Maxson, I am Natalia M—

— Codex says you aren’t until you’ve got his kid, his blood tied to yours.

She outright gawks at that, and my heart sings its joy.

You wanted my thoughts so let me give them, dammit. I shoot her a glare, but the impact of it isn’t there, or maybe it is. She’s glaring too, so I guess it worked. The world is spinning. I hold onto the handrail tighter and continue despite her. To spite her. Unless you’re planning on fighting a war of attrition, we need to work together. Or at least stop blowing each other up. We’ve lost too many men, too many vertibirds, and too much food because there’s too much hate and violence. You just fucking said we can’t afford hate anymore. But hate and violence, that’s all the Minutemen see and all we’re showing them, and that’s why they hate us. That’s why we’re failing in the Commonwealth.

Just before we land, I see in the distance beyond the perimeter an approaching column. It must be that supply shipment Olin and Teagan had discussed earlier. God, I hope it’s food. Olin steps out first, not looking back at me.

You’re right in that regard, if nothing else. The food that was lost must be replaced before we all starve.

She makes her way over to Logistics. Gavil is gone now, replaced by one of Olin’s men. Bits of red paint linger still on his gauntlet. He snaps a salute to Olin as she walks by. He does not do the same for me, but I don’t care. My attention is elsewhere.

Two large luggage carts full of crates and some sort of metal are being wheeled in to Logistics. Olin approaches them and I follow close behind. My vision is bleary and my stomach flipping painfully still. My motion sickness is getting worse, I remind myself to see Knight-Captain Cade.

And then from one of the carts a piece of metal falls. It’s small for what metal is usually brought in, thin and maybe the size of my arm, tipped what appears to be a sawblade—

It’s painted white.

 

I hear Preston sighing, aggravated. Supervisor Greene is singing again and again at him to make a deal, and Preston is just about ready to throw his caps at him to just get it all over with. I watch from inside the Greenhouse, laughing a bit to myself. It’s had been a day since we cleared out the water filtration plant of super mutants, and for the past twenty four hours we had been subjected to only the finest of robot hospitality.

… and my cosmetics, I ran out of those years ago and that foul water was doing me no favors. I must have looked ghastly. Oh, you just don’t know how grateful I am for you and that strapping young man, making the water so nice and clean again. I’m sure it will work wonders for my skin in no time.

I’m sure, I say with a smile. The Mr. Handy programmed as a television diva had been a bizarre thing to stumble upon, even stranger that it was a farmer and still imagined itself as human. Or simply joked about it. I still wasn’t sure. But it was endearing and kind with its femme fatale voice and attitude, and most of all, a wistful reminder of times long gone. Something lost, but found again. All I really was sure of is that I liked it.

Her.

You know, says White, her three mechanical eyes moving from Preston back to me, it’s a rare thing to have such helpful people nowadays. And from what I hear, we’re not the first you two have helped. Why, Mr. Abernathy visited us the other day for some seeds and we heard about you from him. Didn’t believe it for a second, because who helps people nowadays? One of our helpers nearly chased him out of the fields for such a ridiculous fib, not seriously of course. We’re all friends, you know. But! Imagine our surprise when you and your man actually did show up at our door!

Oh, I say, blushing, he’s not my man. I don’t think I’m his type.

Oh? Well there’s no shame in that. He still does like you, though. Believe me, a woman can tell these things. But no matter, you two remind me of the good old days, before those nasty green men and all this radiation. Oh! It’s all wreaking havoc on me, I swear I feel myself wrinkling more and more by the day from it all.

Wrinkling? I gesture to her chipping white paint, at the rocket propellant still firing strong. A cloud uncovers the sun, and the sight of it off her chrome body nearly blinds me. I squint against the light and smile. Why, White, you’re, ah… still absolutely radiant!

Oh, you flatterer. She turns, feigning or perhaps portraying bashfulness, before speaking again. But I do insist. Hosting you and the General would be an honor for us. I do suspect great things of you two in the future. I look forward to the future, thanks to you two. Perhaps you’ll even bring back the good old days of the Commonwealth, mm?

I am about to accept the invitation when a signal breaks through the static.

This is Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius…

I shout to Preston that I think someone needs our help, and the smile that illuminates his face then is one of utmost relief. As we march off to Cambridge, Supervisor White gives us a wave of a robotic arm.

Thank you again, dah-lings!

 

I look into the rolling bin and there she is, inert, dead. Gone is the luscious voice, the humor, the light of life from the robot. Deactivated. Beside her and beside neatly stacked crates of mutfruit are Supervisors Greene and Brown, just as silent as she. In the other bin, more crates and more motionless Handys. All their eager little helpers blown to bits and systematically disassembled.

God.

Where did this come from.

Olin turns to look at me, to Supervisor White’s severed arm in my hands. She raises an eyebrow.

There was an entire hydroponics system not a stone’s throw from Cambridge — so it was absorbed into the outpost. Most of Cambridge and the surrounding area is Brotherhood territory. These robots became hostile when we tried to take it over. I’m planning on re-purposing them into Gutsy’s to reinforce the perim—

God, I want to hit her with this arm, for her stupidity, for her selfishness, for her heartlessness, for her blindness. I had known Supervisor White, and even if she had been a robot, I couldn’t imagine Graygarden being the same place without her. Without the brusqueness of Brown and the drama and excitement from Greene. They were TV personalities, sure, they were robots, sure. But it still hurts to know they’re gone and more is dead because of the goddamn Brotherhood and god! Dear god.

Are you crying? They’re just robots. They were programmed to work. We’ll reprogram them to work again. They won’t go to waste, if that’s what you’re so broken up about.

I stare at her. Beyond her.

Graygarden was under Minuteman protection.

An explosion suddenly rattles logistics, sending shelves and crates crashing down into a pile on the floor. Cracks zig-zag the far wall. The one facing the bay. Miraculously, whatever hit the wall hadn’t broken through and hadn’t hit our reactors. If they had, we’d all be dead.

Olin stands, her hair in disarray and her eyes wide with shock and confusion. She barks at us all to take cover and at a knight to inform the Elder at once of the attack, but in the end he doesn’t need to. Another explosion hits the perimeter wall, shaking the very foundation of the airport like an earthquake. Then another.

I duck under the desk that used to be Gavil’s and bring up my pip-boy. I remember Preston saying something about the Castle, that the most important thing was retaking it. I tune it from DCR down, past that blasted classical station, down to a low frequency that doesn’t quite pick up. Static, I go back up, frantically this time when another explosion shakes the very earth. I feel sick again.

— is Radio Freedom. The Minutemen condemn the Brotherhood and all it stands for. It has taken over Graygarden without warning and despite promises of peaceful negotiation. It has killed or kidnapped all who dwelled within in cold blood. Settlements Oberland Station and Abernathy Farm, be advised and arm yourselves against the coming danger and fire upon any Brotherhood soldier on sight. Any further developments will be relayed immediately through radio broadcast. Message set to repeat. … This is—

Unspoken, this is war.

Then, suddenly, silence. The artillery barrage has stopped. Olin lifts her head, listening carefully for the sound of another strike, or the telltale whistle of a fat man launcher. In the distance, shouting. Invasion, hostage! The warning crack of a musket, then another. Ten more.

The column outside the perimeter. The guards had been escorting the supplies, god, there had been no one at our gates—

Are you hurt? Her eyes are near frenzied with concern, with worry. After a moment of stunned confusion I remember it’s not for me, but what might be inside me.

No—

Good. She grabs me by the arm and hauls me out of Logistics towards the helipad, so quickly I struggle to keep up with her. Her grip is painful on my arm, and I struggle to wrench it out of her grasp.

Is this what you wanted, Olin? All this chaos?

She smiles grimly. No, but it’ll do.

Then, above the chaos and above the laser fire, a familiar voice rises.

Maxson, I hear Preston shout above it all, angry and thirsting for vengeance. It’s time to talk!

Around the corner, muskets still smoking, enters an entire platoon of angry minutemen. At their center is what appears to be a soldier in blazing brotherhood orange. A lancer’s flight suit. A burlap sack obscures his face. Seeing us, and seeing me in particular, Preston raises his musket and cranks it. Five times.

Let. Her. Go.

So you’re this General I keep hearing about. Olin tosses away my wrist nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t worried herself into a panic just seconds before. She clasps her hands behind her and looks about the airport. Knights and scribes position themselves in the shadows, ready at a moment’s notice to fire should anything go awry. The Minutemen see them and form a tight circle, muskets pointed outward and primed. Preston remains at its head, unmoving and unwavering.

His musket is pointed right at Olin, but the look of utter disinterest on her face couldn’t be plainer. She steps from the helipad with her usual elegance and stands erect. She is an intimidating sight.

The Elder is away at the moment, I’m afraid. In the meantime, I speak on his behalf. Or perhaps you would prefer to return at another time?

And who are you?

His wife.

Preston furrows his brow almost imperceptibly at that, his gaze for the briefest of moments flicking to me before returning to her. Well, I think I’d rather speak to Sol until the Elder comes back, if I’m being honest.

For good measure, a minuteman presses a pipe-pistol harder against the lancer’s head. He lets out a whimper but remains silent. Olin’s mouth draws into a thin line before motioning me forward. As I pass her, she grabs my arm and squeezes it tightly, hissing in my ear.

Start lawyering.

I hear the screams and wails of those unfortunate enough to have been hit by the artillery blasts, and as distant and faraway as they are it feels like they’re right in my head. It’s because of you, Kellogg says deep and low in my brain, everyone is dead or dying all because of you.

I shake my head, as if it could dislodge the thought and send it flying. Somehow, it works, and I’m able to focus. I feel dizzy though, impossibly so. Maybe it’s from the fear, I don’t know. And it’s then I realize that I’m still holding what remains of Supervisor White in my hands, gripping to it so tightly the paint is peeling away from my fingers. I see Preston see this, and the resolve on his face hardens. I stand now, before him.

The Brotherhood, he says lowly, is a pack of armored raiders. Graygarden isn’t the first settlement they raided, though god help me, it’s going to be the last. He looks at me then, his brows furrowed in anger. But his eyes, those kind eyes I had known, they were filled with hurt. With betrayal.

He growls the name that is my name, one that sounds alien to my ears. Had I truly been her at one point? But he says it, spits it like a poison, and continues. You told us they were better than this, that they could be negotiated with. Our people are dead!

He gestures with his musket angrily at White’s arm in my hands. My grip tightens and I feel the wounds on my hand reopen, bleeding through the bandages. It’s warm. I feel it all through my body, the pain. I feel tears spring to my eyes Then, the hurt spreads to the rest of his face as he sees this. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

And why is it each time I see you you’re beat up more?

Someone was stealing our food from us, ghouls, I say, but my words sound off somehow. Distant, wobbly. Maybe the anxiety, maybe I’m dissociating. I shake my head again, I can’t panic, not here and not now. I had to take care of them, and my hand got bit up. Please, Preston, believe me. The Brotherhood is starving. We have barely enough food to feed ourselves for the next week it’s gotten so bad. Please, this was the action of an uninformed individual—

We? Our? Preston looks as if he’s been shot in the heart at that. His grip on his musket tightens. Are you defending the conquering of these settlements? The murders of our friends?

No, I— I want to answer his question but words are like cotton on my tongue, stifling the breath in my throat. I choke at it, at the pain of it all. War. Is it to be war again? I struggle to find myself beyond the tears, beyond the dizziness, the anxiety.

Preston, from the beginning, you’ve hated the Brotherhood. I remember, I was there. Just give them a chance and listen to them, to me. They’ve allowed me to have a say in negotiations and — ah! I double over in pain, it feels like I’ve been stabbed, or shot. Maybe I have, I don’t know. Even if I have, I have to keep speaking. I can’t have another war I can’t have people dying again, I can’t lose more people I just can’t, I can’t lose anyone after Nate and Shaun I can’t— I hear myself speaking, shrill and panicked and I can’t stop myself.

I-I’m trying to mete something out. I just found out about Graygarden, please, I swear—

Garvey! The Elder’s voice cracks like a thunderbolt. He walks through the doorway to Logistics, the Paladin, unarmored, striding by his side. He is red with rage, though the Paladin’s face is even and calculated. Preston turns to look at them, though his musket is still pointed straight ahead.

Straight at me.

Seeing this, both stop dead in their tracks.

Elder, says the General of the Minutemen, gesturing to the hostage behind him, then to me. I’d have rather talked things through like civilized folk, but you kind of forced my hand. What with your people taking over Graygarden and all.

Maxson’s mouth parts for the briefest of moments, the confusion plain on his face. In an instant, he closes it, tightly, and speaks through clenched teeth.

I did not order the acquisition of any further resources from settlements after our meeting. In fact, he shoots a hateful glare at Olin. Instead of looking down with shame or guilt, she raises her nose up to him, proudly. I strictly forbade it.

Preston, unimpressed, points at White’s severed arm in my hand. His voice is bitter. Doesn’t matter who ordered or who didn’t, a settlement under my protection was raided and someone’s got to answer for that. Either you, this wife of yours who apparently did it, or him. He points back at the hostage. His musket is still trained right on me, and it’s all I can see. The world fades away and all I feel I can see is what’s before me, like a television screen.

Show his face, says the Elder, crossing his arms, for all I know, he’s one of your minutemen, dressed in our uniform.

Elder! The hostage suddenly shouts then from behind the hood, it’s me! Lancer Isaiah Renner, registration RN-396L—

Impossible! The Paladin approaches from the Elder’s side, his gaze never leaving the General’s, Renner’s vertibird went down in the Sea. I saw it. Renner is dead. What trick is this?

The General smiles grimly, and for a moment I feel as though it’s sad, somehow. We found him after we found you, on another patrol. You were clearing the Vault, I think, when we brought him back to Somerville Place. Wasn’t near as grateful as you were about being saved, but here we are, I suppose. He turns and pulls off the hood.

The Paladin is taken aback by the sight. We all are. Before us is indeed Lancer Isaiah Renner, but changed. His dark, warm skin has gone cold and withered, pulled back and near sticking from the bone. Bits fall off, like his nose had, from the massive amount of deadly radiation he had undoubtedly been exposed to. All the hair is gone from his head and his eyes have gone dark too, glistening like beetles and suddenly I’m afraid, very afraid, I’m back in the underground and it’s on top of me, squirming and screaming for blood—

Ghoul.

Isaiah smiles then, nervously, but it’s his. It’s unmistakable, those pearly whites he was so proud of, and I know it. I know it from his smiles to Kyle, to his beloved Erica, to me after telling a joke. It’s unmistakably Isaiah.

No one moves and no one speaks for I don’t know how long. Perhaps time has stopped. I know my heart has, seeing him. Knowing that even changed, Kyle hasn’t lost his father, Erican hasn’t lost her husband. He’s a ghoul, disfigured and mutated, but I can still see him in there, behind the skin and behind those ghastly eyes, he’s still Isaiah Renner. He isn’t feral, like the ones that attacked me, like the ones I had killed, he’s still him.

I haven’t killed him, by god, he’s still alive.

The Elder approaches slowly, one foot hesitantly following the other, and looks with visible disgust at the ghoul. But still, he looks, and his eyes widen as he recognizes the same thing I do. His lips part, he blinks. The Paladin too, is stunned silent by the sight. Isaiah’s face brightens with such a pure hope and joy, I want to weep for it.

The Elder looks away.

Renner is dead, he says, resolved. He died in the Glowing Sea. I don’t know this creature you’ve brought before me.

My entire being breaks then for Isaiah, and my heart beats fast. Impossibly fast. Too fast. Something’s off. I feel my knees collapse beneath me. The Elder catches me against him, and I fall into him. I can’t stand, am I fainting?

He says my name, but it sounds far away and fuzzy. I can see him say it, but I can’t really hear it. His hands tighten on my arms, painfully so. I think he’s shaking me. Olin is there, the Paladin too. I look past them, to the General, to Preston. The color, the resolve, the anger, the life seems to have vanished from his face. His eyes are wide with horror.

All of me is cold, but for some reason my legs are warm, like the blood on my hand. I look down, and I must have wiped it on my robes because it’s there. It’s everywhere, so much of it, it’s pooling at my feet. Surely my hand isn’t bleeding that much. A chill washes over me suddenly, despite the warmth of all that blood, and God, it feels like I’ve w—

Olin lets out a scream as I pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***** TW: possible miscarriage, possible panic attack, PTSD flashback *****
> 
> I promise the angst will let up soon. I absolutely promise. Like, within the next chapter promise. Cross my heart.
> 
> But thank you all so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you have any comments, critiques or concerns please know that I love any and all feedback and will respond as soon as I can. :)
> 
> If you're interested in my writing or my writing style or what inspires me, feel free to check me out on tumblr at: http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/ !


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! I had a few surgeries and was briefly hospitalized but am better now. As an apology I did my best to give you all an extra good chapter and am working on the next! (And also writing again made me feel pretty dang good!)
> 
> Thank you for all who read and to those who have given me such nice words on my work. You guys inspire me and keep me at this through thick and thin. I couldn't do this without all of your support. And as for support, jeez, 80 kudos? I can't thank you guys enough. I'll do my best at continuing to do a good job for you all! (｀･ω･´)ゞ
> 
> ***** TW: mentioned miscarriage, language, grief, self-loathing and a whole lot of brutal honesty *****

Keep from stress, young mother, it affects you and the baby within you. Look to your loving husband in this trying time.

I think I read that in a parenting book once. I remember reading piles of them, actually. Books upon books about babies and mothers and, ultimately, for fathers. At that point the letter had come that my Nate had been lost behind enemy lines in Alaska. Babies with fathers, those are what these books were written for, and my little one would grow up not having one. I also remember throwing those books away, as they had become useless to me. They were full of happy smiling families, cranes laden with heavy bundles of precious life, a smiling couple reaching up for this blessed gift from God.

That was when I met Mrs. Siobhan Rosa. Like me, she had gone against her family’s wishes and eloped with a man outside our own insular cultures. I suppose this was why she came to me in the first place. Usually anyone who wasn’t Italian would spit at me or carefully skirt around me for my Family ties, and I carried a knife to protect me against the Irish pouncing on me in retaliation for my father’s crimes. She was as Irish as could get, even had the accent and skin so pale it looked ready to burst into flames as red as her hair at the faintest of sunrays. When she first came knocking on my door, I remember thinking she was some Irish gangster’s wife come to whack me.

Though my age, she had been a mother and a widow much longer than I, as she had lost Martín in the early days of the war. Whether she was eager to help me or have someone who could and would finally listen to her troubles, I don’t think it mattered. She helped and quickly became a friend. She gave me all the advice I needed to survive my pregnancy and my grieving for my husband.

In return, I home-schooled her delinquent son who had been expelled from just about everywhere. With my own rough childhood, I had no trouble dealing with his rebelliousness and succeeded in whipping the boy into shape. He fought every step of the way, capitulating into combating his horrible trouble with dyslexia only when I taught him to properly defend himself with his butterfly knife. Told him I'd kick his sorry ass if I found him picking fights, and taught him how to win them if he found himself in one. When he asked how I knew these things, I told him mothers know everything. But his mother better not know out about this. He did not question the contradiction in my words, and did not ask further.

In truth, I had seen the youthful bravado of young boys take the lives of far too many.

I taught him instead to outwit the boys who tormented him, to sneak around fights and win with cleverness and charm rather than earn a few bruises and cuts for the sake of fleeting reputation. To choose carefully who you could trust. Most importantly, I taught him that if he had to fight, fight dirty. Fighting fair only gets you as far as the first one who doesn't. Fair doesn't exist in this world, so don't pretend it does.

Honor, I told him as I knitted yet another baby blanket to soothe yet another wave of grief, means jack shit if you're dead.

For this, I think, I earned his respect and friendship as well. Soon he was coming over after his lessons multiple times a week to raid my bookshelf. Or, simply, to chat. His near-constant presence helped soothe my nerves about the baby inside me, about my life after the birth, about living without Nate or my Family at my side. Siobhan would visit too, and soon I joked that they might as well have moved in with me for how much they were in my house.

Luis had been tackling some of the larger volumes of my collection on my living room floor when my water broke. I remember him shrieking like a banshee and running at a sprint for his ma when it happened. Later I gave him hell for it, that girly little scream coming from such a tough wannabe greaser. He retorted without a moment's hesitation that that he had been the one to illegally drive me to Boston, to Kendall, in his ma’s shitty Corvega they were still trying to restore. We had done some pretty serious damage actually starting up and using the thing, since we had to tow it out of the parking lot after Shaun had been born. Siobhan had had to take it to the nearby Quincy garage as we had busted the core reactor. It had been a miracle we hadn't blown it up in using it.

For this Luis told me I owed him big time and had asked me for a favor. Not then, but one day.

After laughing about how much he had grown, I had heartily agreed.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what it might have been.

Siobhan came running from work after a frantic phonecall from the hospital. She and her son had been the ones to hold my arms, wipe the sweat of my brow, to comfort me in my agony. After ten excruciating hours of labor the first, after me, to hold my precious baby boy. In a way, they had become my new family. They made me feel for the first time since that news of my husband's death that I could do what I needed to do. That I could live, and at that, happily.

I had ended up losing them, for Nate. Then, forever, to the bombs.

I miss them.

And yet, now as I open my tired eyes and find myself in a hospital bed, belly still aching and legs weak, I see a redheaded woman at my side. Seeing me stir, she says something, and that voice, that voice has to be Siobhan. Irish and downright foul-mouthed, my friend. My best friend, like the sister I had never had.

Dear God, it has all been a dream, a horrible dream, I think. It’s racing. I feel my breath ragged on my dry lips. My eyes are bleary with exhaustion and tears of joy. My heart, it soars. I reach out to her.

She shies away.

My vision clears and so does reality. The woman before me is not Siobhan. Her hair is darker, her face hard. She stares at me critically and curiously, arms crossing over blazing Brotherhood orange.

Yer awake, she says in that distinct Irish way. Good. It didn’t kill ye.

What happened?

I look around and I’m in the medical bay of the Prydwen, alone save for me and this woman I haven’t seen before. A red pin on her collar tells me she’s one of Olin’s retinue. And from her musculature and bearing, a knight. Or something like it.

She adjusts herself in her metal chair, and seeing my confusion, continues.

Ye caused quite a scene down there, didn’t ye? Caught those damn Minutemen off-guard just as much as us. Luckily that Paladin Danse thought quick enough to take advantage a’that, got ‘em talkin’ about a truce or whatever. Couldn’t have worked out better if we tried. Damn, you plan this shite?

She laughs.

I don’t know this woman, much less know what she’s talking about. My hand touches my belly lightly, and I remember before dreaming of the past, feeling faint, then the blood—

It happens, darlin’, says the woman, crossing her legs casually. You’ll have one eventually, the Maxsons will see to that. It’s miserable, yeah, I get that. Whose life fuckin’ ain’t. Just grit yoir teeth and bear it, darlin’. Once you end up poppin' one out they’ll treat ye real nice.

I still don’t know what she’s talking about and I don’t want to. I sit up abruptly, sending a raging pain through my abdomen. Still, I need to get away from this bed and from what this woman is saying, implying. It can’t be, I won’t let it. But she places a hand against my chest and pushes me back down.

Hate it as much as ye, darlin’, but I’m in charge of watchin’ ye ‘til Mr. and Mrs. Elder come back from their truce-talkin’. So stay put and I won’t have to get on yoir arse, aye?

The force in her hand pushing me back down is far from gentle, and in her words I know she means business. I obediently lay in the bed and ask nothing more, for which she appears silently grateful. We sit and lie in the med bay for some time in mutual relief at not acknowledging the presence of the other. And yet, an aching question rises up from my belly to my heart, my mind.

Was something inside me, growing, alive?

I remember my pregnancy with Shaun, how simultaneously horrible and wonderful it had been. The feeling of another life within me, at first it had felt alien and frightening. It changed everything about me, forcefully and without warning, sending me into fearsome mood swings of rage and anguish or making me swell up like a balloon, only to expel it all suddenly in horrible bouts of crippling morning sickness. My body hadn't taken kindly to pregnancy, but at his first kick, I would have taken it all in stride, and hell, I would have taken more. And feeling my baby finally in my arms, my baby Shaun, I knew no love stronger than looking at his beautiful face at that moment.

I remember also looking at the ghoul in Cambridge, distended belly grotesque and bloated. Feeding and feeding to mindlessly sate what had been fused into her. Consuming her. My fright in looking at that, and then... and then my disgusting envy.

I had felt none of either of those in the past weeks. Sickness, yes, but I had attributed that to our food problems or the tidal wave of rads I had taken from the ghouls. And surely, no child could have survived the amount of radiation I had taken from the ghouls, if my womb hadn't already been totally destroyed from my ventures in the Commonwealth before I even heard of the Brotherhood. I had felt no child, and above all, I wanted no child. I told myself that again and again.

But at the thought of a possible miscarriage, why did the world feel as though it would crash down upon me?

Surely I did not want a child borne of rape, into a ruined world, only to be raised as a child soldier. I could not bear the thought of it. And most of all, I could not help the feeling that such a child would serve only to erase Shaun from my life forever. A sad, morbid replacement for a son I had lost. The idea of it made me feel sick.

But.

Why, now when I touch my aching belly, do I feel so utterly empty?

These thoughts escape from me, fearful, like the squeak of a mouse.

I… I’m pregnant?

The woman lets out a weary sigh, apparently having dreaded this eventuality as much as I.  
  
Aye, though perhaps ‘was’ is a better way to say it? Dunno. Ye bled so much ye sent the Lady Maxson into a panic, then a rage.  
  
She says the Lady Maxson like an insult, snickering deviously after each iteration of it. Slowly, I turn my face to look at her. She's smiling. No, grinning.  
  
More like a tantrum, really. Fuckin’ riot, seein’ our dear fair Lady like that. But from what I’ve heard of ye, yer tough as nails. Fuckin’ wrestled a Glowing One? Pssh. If the babe’s got anythin’ like yer balls a’ steel, that little fucker’s still kickin’.

I look over at the woman, seeing the strange Knight actually smiling at me. A shred of respect, maybe. She spreads her legs forward with an air of confidence and dominance, leaning on them and towards me. Her voice is bitter as she speaks.

My first was like this. The wife wen’ and thrashed me good fer losin’ it. Was all smiles when it came out though, thankin' me and blessin' me and all that shite. Hated her more for it, glad to leave that bitch back at the Citadel. But ye’ve got a Master too damn important fer thrashin’, so it prob’ly won’t be too bad.

Wait, what? I grit my teeth at the ache, the sting, at turning over, but I face her. Sure enough, just behind her ear, a brand like mine half-buried behind her wild red hair. I stare openly at her. She purses her lips thoughtfully and nods slowly.

Yep. Gave the Brotherhood three, so they just about gave me whatever the hell I wanted. I wanted to fight. Not with them a’course, but the goddamn Brotherhood doesn’t really just let people leave. Especially if they're babymakers. Ye should know that better than anyone, eh, darlin’?

Three?

Aye, three. But I’m ‘ere to watch ye, I ain’t here to tell ye me goddamn life story.

Oh. That’s fair.

But I guess, since I know what yer in fer, I’ll warn ye now. Only 'fair', as ye say, I guess.  
  
When she tells me, her voice is low.  
  
The Knight-Captain an’ the Lady Maxson are sure it’s ‘was’, though they're already plannin’ fer ‘will be’. Soon, I'd reckon.

My breath catches in my throat. I nod slowly at the Knight, gratefully. She nods back, her eyes cold and unsympathetic, but shining with a strange sense of conspiratory camaraderie. She leans back into her metal chair easily and casually, once more closing her arms around her, and closing herself off from me.

Aspirant Cait.

She stands slowly and without the usual crispness I had seen in other knights, and especially not in Aspirants. I remember when Lucia had been an aspirant, the urge to please and impress all officers and even her fellow knights and initiates in the Brotherhood, hoping and praying each and every moment to be noticed. Aspirants were those passed over for Knight and had remained as Initiates for so long they had become too experienced to consider them as such. It was a fancy title for those deemed unfit for promotion.

Unfit is certainly the word for her, as she is nothing short of defiant.  
  
Seeing Cait, I am sure she is very happy to remain in the position only to rebel against her commanders at each and every moment. I feel a surge of respect for her when instead of saluting, she visibly and deliberately keeps her arms at her sides. Olin, rather than bristling at such a blatant sign of disrespect, waves her away.

Cait does not look back at me as she takes her leave.

Her words linger in my mind, her warning, her tales of suffering at the hands of other wives. Already, I am not unfamiliar with it. Olin slinks around my bed, elegant hands clasped carefully behind her flowing red robes, her eyes locked on me like a puma on the prowl. Finally she pounces upon me, slamming her hands on the bed just beside me, making it quite clear she wished it to be upon my aching belly, my throat. She glares at me, breathing heavily and heated with anger.

How dare you.

She says it with such venom and hate, and though I should not be at this point surprised, I am. She balls her hands into fists around the bedsheets, my weathered blankets. With a sharp intake of breath through her teeth, she rips them from me and throws them across the room. Though the blankets had done little to warm me, at that moment, suddenly, I feel suddenly cold.  Exposed.

Do you have no respect for the sanctity of life? Is chasing after danger more important to you than the idea of your children?

The veins of her neck at bulging. Her eyes are wild.

Perhaps having children was easy in your world, but it isn't here. And don't you dare! Don't you dare treat it as such. Careless whore, chasing after that traitor, alone! Is there anything inside that head of yours? How could you not think there could be danger in such a place, with such a disturbed creature? You are not your own, and you carry-- her voice halts, catching with a gasp in her throat. She looks away and clamps her mouth shut. She swallows. Breathes. In, out. -- carried. You carried a life worth yours a thousand times over. I have been understanding to this point, I have been lenient!

She clenches and unclenches her hands at her sides, as if strangling and re-strangling a neck. My own, I imagine, and I swallow my own growing nervousness. If this is her leniency, I truly fear for what she considers more reasonable.

Arthur's ways have become misguided, you have misguided him. Somehow you have misguided the entirety of the Prydwen with your lies and your trickery. I will put both of you on the right path. The Codex demands it. I have this right, I'm his wife! I'm Maxson! Not you!

She turns her eyes once more towards me, down. Down to me. I feel the malice in her eyes, the betrayal, the hate.

You will not threaten the life of my child again.

I am rendered silent by that. I can only stare.

Natalia, enough.

The Elder strides in, closely followed by the Paladin. The Elder's face is hard, drawn carefully tight and unmoving, gaze cast forward at nothing. He does not storm in as he usually does, but such a carefully restrained and deliberate stride. Despite his apparent calmness, it more unnerving and intimidating than even his angriest and most violent of rages. He does not look at either of us, or at the Paladin behind him who struggles to hide his nervousness from me. But I still see it, when my friend's eyes flick towards mine and he tries to give me one of his goofy reassuring smiles. And, perhaps, the word tries is an overstatement of what he is able to give me.

The Elder is angry.

Olin looks at him. She says nothing to him, but she gives to him is that which I had never before imagined her capable of giving. I had not noticed in my nervousness her eyes swollen from tears concealed from me, the wrinkles and lines upon her face once so carefully concealed rendered bare and deep by her grief. She blinks back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, her mouth trembling as it struggles to find words capable of describing her impossible grief. This grief, this alarming and crippling vulnerability in the loss of a child she imagined was hers.

What to say to the man that is her husband she does not know, and instead of any semblance of intelligible language all she is capable of is a raggedy sort of breath that hitches and catches in her throat. But it's soft, held back, as if attempting to restrain herself from sobbing. As if she's choking on herself.

Leave us.

The Elder's voice is disturbingly even. Olin lets out another ugly, gargled breath and claps a hand over her mouth. Before I am able to see her tears, she's gone, having scurried out of the room like a kicked dog.

The Paladin gives me a small, respectful nod to me, and one last worried look to the Elder, before following her.

I am alone in the room with the Elder. He stands still, head hunched forward and gaze so deliberately and diligently pointed forward. As if the slightest movement might make him explode, he stands utterly and perfectly still. Slowly, he takes those same even steps and moves the divider between me and the next bed against the entrance to the medbay.  It's a poor excuse for a door, for privacy. But still, from the tenseness I see then in his back, his arms, his neck -- and then when he turns to look at me with that same carefully constructed calmness, I know it's necessary. Or, rather, it is for him.

He takes the chair that had been Cait's in his hands, carefully and precisely turning it to face me, bringing it close to the bedside. He sits without a sound or the slightest change in countenance, soundlessly. He leans forward, elbows propped against his knees, concealing his face with half-clasped hands. He exhales as he does this, releasing all his intense calm slowly and deeply, deflating. He sags, his heavy battlecoat slumping off one shoulder with the movement. He does not move to correct it.

He remains like this for some time, and I do not reach or say anything to comfort him. I am in too much confusion myself, torn between wanting to laugh or cry at it all. I lean against the cold metal wall of the medbay, feeling in my bones the deep ever-present thrum of the Prydwen's mighty engines. However, I find my wandering gaze always, again, upon him, trying to find some semblance of reaction from him. What did he feel about this?

Or did he, perhaps, feel the same as I?

He looks up from his hands then. His clasped hands fall open upon the bed, limp and useless and weak, as if in prayer. I feel a finger against my knee. I look at these hands, these rough and scarred hands, fallen so pitifully and weakly, such an impossible show of helplessness and vulnerability that I had never expected from the Elder. The longer I look at those hands, the longer I finding myself wishing I did not see it.

But he looks at me then, and in his eyes I see that same crushing sadness I had seen in his wife. I felt my heart ache at that look he gives me, and the feeling of emptiness within me grows tenfold. I don't want it to, but it does. I touch a hand against that emptiness, trying to keep it at bay, but it hurts.

As much as I hate him, and as much as I hate myself for needing him, he had been the father of this child. My child.

God, I had had a child.

The thought of it hits me suddenly and painfully, and my heart burns with agony at the thought. The father of my child, sitting now before me grieving, grieving alongside me, this child neither of us truly wanted. Or had even known had existed.

And yet it had left an incredible void within me.

Within us.

I sit up, grunting as my abdomen speaks its displeasure. But I do it anyway, wiping away the tears threatening to fall from my eyes. I reach out to him, to his shoulder. He flinches at the touch, in surprise, perhaps, but does not shy away. Slowly and carefully, I right his coat and smooth it out. Our stupid little ritual, our little act, I kept telling myself. But this time, it doesn't feel like that.

And maybe I don't want it to be.

You, I say after a very noisy sniff, look like shit.

He exhales quickly, the best he can offer as a laugh, as I adjust the collar of his coat. I pull it down with a quick tug, judging with a critical eye the symmetry of the collar as if it mattered. He raises a brow at my antics, and the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, at his scar. At seeing that smile I had come to crave, that pain and that empty feeling lessens somewhat, and a rush of emotion suddenly overcomes me. I struggle to blink it back and it does not go unnoticed.

So do you.

I chuckle at that, and then seeing his smile, I bite back all that I feel and pat his collar, finally satisfied at fixing it. The Elder gives me a small nod of gratitude and leans back in his chair. Quite suddenly, my hands feel cold, not having his dragon's warmth so close to me. But still, the memory of him is there as if he still there and my fingers are on, and some of the pain that had wracked me is gone. Looking to him, at that slightest of smiles, perhaps I have done the same for him.

I do have an excuse, he says after settling himself comfortably in his chair. The General told me, in a very lengthy and roundabout way, to give you his well wishes.

That's... rather friendly for having just declared war.

Well, I managed a truce between us for the time being.

I nearly have to blink back my surprise at his words. He nods, his tone betraying his own disbelief and continues.

Paladin Danse volunteered to stay with the Minutemen and monitor their development. I see the wisdom in this, as he's helped them once and earned their trust. And I know without a doubt his loyalties lie with the Brotherhood, so we can trust him in this as well. We need time to recover and opportunity for supply trade. This could, we could improve our relationship with them and the Commonwealth. It would certainly remove an obstacle in our path. If all goes well, well. Peace... it could be a boon.

I force myself to swallow my I told you so.

And what did they want in exchange for this? I can't imagine the Minutemen taking too kindly to being spied on for nothing in return.

The Elder looks away then and is it a moment before he speaks. Originally, they wanted you.

I can't help but sigh at that, in a mixture of relief and joy and shame, imagining Preston, sweet smiling Preston, risking all-out war at the expense of a friend. Or perhaps he knew how important a pawn I was in the game, to the Elder, and wanted control of that. He had changed in a way I had not been able to see or even gauge. I no longer knew if this man who wanted me was Preston Garvey or General Garvey, and the thought of that depressed me. Frightened me.

And then Garvey wanted to see you. To come up here on the Prydwen and be what Danse will be for them, so I couldn't agree to that either. While it would certainly be beneficial to hold their leader captive, I... I could not risk it. This Garvey friend, he says then slowly, he really cares for you.

He does, I reply with a thoughtful nod. At first I think nothing of it, but I feel the Elder's on me. Elaborate, he says silently with that inquisitive and curious stare. In his usual commanding and intimidating way, how does he care for you? I almost smile at that, almost laugh at that.

Why? I say slyly. Are you jealous?

Yes.

I am stunned silent by this unexpected response. I had expected, hoped for, our usual bickering or arguing or even fighting. A carefully disguised bashfulness in an shouted, of course not! Or something similar.

But this.

I don't know how to feel about this.

As I struggle to find myself, and at my continued silence at that, he changes the subject. It took hours to change his mind from this, he says, brow furrowed in obvious frustration. In the end, I'm afraid I gave in to his demands of having someone aboard the Prydwen. A Minuteman civilian who will be responsible for evaluating your situation aboard the Prydwen will also repair the, ah, citizens of the settlement of Greygarden.

Oh, that's not bad--

\-- We will also aid in repairing any and all settlements affected by Teagan's requisitions and preparing supply reparations for crimes against the Commonwealth. Eventually, joint Minuteman and Brotherhood patrols will be established. If the civilian completes his task and finds us to his satisfaction, and we remain true to our terms, the Minutemen will establish trade of food for our water and material supply.

I touch a hand to my head, so shocked I think perhaps I'm delirious or dreaming. Utterly, I am baffled at the Elder's complete lack of diplomatic skill. Surely he had to know how uneven that deal had been, how much such terms would set back the Brotherhood in our mission. The Brotherhood was, although justifiably, giving everything while the Minutemen would only prosper. Hell, it jeopardized the very presence of the Brotherhood in the Commonwealth. He had to see that.

I think you did need my lawyering. That's a terrible deal.

Is it? The Elder sighs, running a hand through his hair. After a moment of careful thought, he looks to me, his face now resolved.

And, yes. I did need you. I do.

He places a hand then on mine at my side, grasping it tightly, but with none of his usual harshness and aggressiveness. He takes it gently and tenderly, and truthfully, it frightens me more. I feel my heart beat faster and my eyes grow wide as he speaks.

I was terrified when I heard Clarke had taken you somewhere, but by the time I got to you the elevator had already closed. I fought my way through I don't know how many ghouls, I can't remember. All I remember is that I had to get to you. And then you didn't need saving. You almost shot me, even. You had a clear shot and you had every right and reason to take it.

He looks down at his hands, at his thumb running itself over my knuckles, over the scars and burns I had earned there during my time in the Commonwealth. Was he looking for my story in those marks and bumps and bruises as I did in his? But instead he continues, his voice unable to conceal the difficulty of his words.

All I've done to you. What I'm doing, I'm holding your boy and the Institute hostage to keep you in line, for fuck's sake. I'm a married man and I have the audacity and the depravity to rape you and put my child in you. I've punished you because of your love and compassion and kindness. All of this I've done to you. Why didn't you kill me that day?

I try to find an answer, any answer, to that. But before I can speak he continues, his voice, deep and commanding and strong with authority, is suddenly small.

Why didn't you kill me all those nights I kept you by me?

To that I have no answer either. At the time I told myself fear. Perhaps a sense of hopelessness. Shaun. But I had killed people before, terrible people who deserved it. Before the war and after, they had been monsters. I could kill if I had to. The Elder certainly was one, and yet, I couldn't bring myself to. Night after night I had lain in his bed, beside and against him, and before me he had been vulnerable, literally lain bare before me. And his room was an arsenal, Righteous Authority on display behind just one lock. Our silverware still on the table, a combat knife in his desk drawer. Even a fucking pillow would have done the trick.

Night after night I had fantasized of ways to kill him. And despite knowing this, despite my having tried to kill him beforehand, he had lain himself before me at his most vulnerable. He had not done anything beside ask I lay next to him and had gone to sleep peacefully.  Peacefully, save for when he dreamt of Sarah.

Lyons, Sarah and her two paltry lines.

And then, suddenly I am horrified.

... Did you want me to kill you?

The Elder does not directly respond to that question, but his hands tighten on mine and beneath all of that scruff to make him look an age he isn't, I see his jaw clench. In his secret language, that barest signs of what lies deep within him betrayed only by his body, I can see his answer.

But then I also see that tiny crack I had chipped into him, impossible questions and doubt, I see it now. All that is within him has beaten itself against that crack, against everything this young warlord had built himself up to be, and now it bursts.

I have made you miserable, he says. And you are thoroughly undeserving of it. I regret deeply what I have done to you and undoubtedly no amount of apology could be enough. And yet, I must again and again as I do these things to you, with excuses I tell myself, for duty, for the Brotherhood, for the sake of humanity. And again and again I find myself apologizing to you for yet another monstrous thing I've done to you.

His voice cracks.

I, I've had to condemn the lives of so many for the sake of the Brotherhood. I have to shoulder it for the good of humanity, they keep telling me, you're responsible for that. You're responsible for all of us, you are Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. You are who we will follow without question to our very deaths. We believe in you. We worship you.

His eyes are wet.

I never wanted that, I never wanted to be that, and I'm not that. I'm not what they see, I'm not what they think I am, or am I? I don't know the answers, but the Brotherhood needs them, humanity needs them. They're expected of me. I'm Maxson. I was supposed to be Arthur, Sentinel to Elder Sarah Lyons. I had trained for it all my life. I wanted to ask her to marry me, oh, I loved her. God, I loved her.

He looks down and away from me then. To hide his tears, to mask his shame in telling me this, embarrassment -- it didn't matter. I didn't want to see any of it. So instead, I simply listen.

Then she died. I didn't know what to do. Everything fell apart around me but they were telling me I have to save it. It's a good thing Sarah died, they kept saying. We are saved, we have Maxson. Maxson will lead us back to glory. Maxson. I'm a man, not a god! But that's what I am to these people, to my people. I have to be, for them. I hate every moment of it and I hate myself for it, but, I am Maxson. Before, with Sarah, I could just be Arthur. But she is dead and I am not, and here I am, only Maxson.

Not knowing quite what else to say about this sudden vulnerability from a man for whom I had imagined none, I place a hand on his shoulder. He shakes it off he looks to me then and I see his face, painfully young even behind the scars, the beard, the armor, the title -- the eyes filled with tears are that of a man barely more than a boy.

And you? You. All my problems would be answered if you birthed my child, any child, son or daughter it doesn't fucking matter. A new Maxson and all my problems answered I kept telling myself. The Outcasts would finally be satisfied. Less pressure, everything sliding neatly into place. When you said you had a son I saw it then, plotted to make you mine, stole you from Danse. My most loyal soldier, my best friend from before my time as Elder, I betrayed him to make you mine. But when the time came to find all those answers, when I had the opportunity to make you mine, I couldn't.

His face is red with the effort of keeping himself together and, undoubtedly, with shame at breaking down. Still, he continues.

I had to drink myself into a near stupor to be able to do what I did to you. It doesn't make it better, and it doesn't make me feel better. I knew it was wrong, that what I was doing was monstrous, and still I went through with it. I felt so dirty I shaved off my beard, I washed my face near raw, but I couldn't get that feeling off. I never did it again.  But still, I had wronged you in such a way I could never hope for your forgiveness. And today when you collapsed into my arms, you bled so much I thought I'd killed you. I'd killed you because I'm every bit the monster you've said I am. I knew it and I thought as I carried you here, laid you in this bed. But I knew when I found you in the underground with all those ghouls that I couldn't bear to lose you, but today, today I discovered why. And for that I'm deeply ashamed.

He grinds a knuckle roughly into his eye an attempt to stifle the tears.

More than anything, I want to be Arthur to you. I want to be kind to you, to hold you, to be beside you. To be who you are kind to, to be who you hold, to be who you will stand beside. I need you. But the Brotherhood would never allow that, for you or for me. To love you violates what is written in our Codex. To love you would break the peace between factions. Already, Natalia threatens it. To keep you by my side would betray the Brotherhood, it would betray Shaun, it would betray the memory of your husband, it would betray everything we both stand for.

But when you were bleeding in my arms!  Fuck, I knew I would do anything to be able to be that to you, damn it all. I made a deal for peace as you lay dying, for all I knew, because that was what you wanted. I wanted to become what you still saw in me. What I could be, and that I could still be Arthur. I remembered all you had told me and all that I needed to right, and I did. As terrible as will be for the Brotherhood now, I believe you when you say diplomacy is ultimately best. I, I trust you. I know that it's no apology for what I've done, or for what I'm about to say.

He looks at me, at my look of horror undoubtedly still transfixed upon him, then to my hands. He moves his as if to take mine again, but he hesitates, and withdraws. He lays it in his lap.

I was relieved when I heard you lost the child. I have given you enough misery in your life, I have already taken too much from you. To have you carry the child of a man you hate, to birth it and mother it while your own child is God knows where, that is a burden I could never ask you to bear. Not now.  It's an evil thing to think, directly against everything the Brotherhood stands for. Against the fight for humanity, against everything I've ever known. I was glad it was dead so you could live.

Again, he says at last, swallowing back his tears and his dignity, I find I have to apologize. For wanting you and wanting to have children with you, one day.  But not like this, never like this.  I shouldn't and I have no right to do it.  And the most monstrous thing I've done to you, that I can't stop despite everything... is that I've fallen in love with you.

I have nothing, and everything, to say to him.  And yet I'm left dumbstruck by all he's told me, by what he's admitted and confessed. When he confessed that he loved me. My heart hurt at those words, though what kind of hurt it was I can't tell. Or perhaps I can't decide. All I can tell is that after he is done speaking his bloodshot gaze is upon me. There, before me, is a young warlord who has laid himself bare before me because I had broken him.

Each and every word I had agreed with, and yet.

I reach out to him, touching a hand to his cheek, feeling the scar that marred his beautiful face I told myself I hated, the brush of a tangled beard meant to hide who he was. He leans into it, breathing deeply.

I'm sorry, he says.

And with all the sincerity he had just given me, I give him my reply.

Me too, I whisper, bringing his lips to mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a chapter. I struggled with how to word this just right, but I hope you all are pleased with it! There's a little hope for these guys, even with all this angst that seems to hang so heavy over everything I write. I'll get rid of it someday, I promise.
> 
> The song I was listening to most writing this chapter and largely inspired my vision of Maxson is Above the Clouds of Pompeii by Bear's Den. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGXBR1wR-mo)
> 
> And as for Cait? Well, she wasn't sold to raiders here...
> 
> I recently drew a picture of Sol which can be found here on my tumblr in the "ih2bu" tag! (http://sneakywitch-thief.tumblr.com/)


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